UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT   LOS  ANGELES 


/^ 


THE  WORKS  OF 
JOHN   GREENLEAF  WHITTIER 

ILLUSTRATED    WITH  STEEL  PORTRAITS 
AND  PHOTOGRAVURES 

IN   SEVEN  VOLUMES 
VOLUME   I 


Mr.  WTuttitr  in  1836 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS 


OF 


JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER 

IN  FOUR  VOLUMES 
VOLUME   I. 

NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 


BOSTON    AND    NEW    YORK 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND   COMPANY 

Cfje  firticrsi&e 


Copyright,  1848, 1850, 1?53, 1856, 1857,  1860, 1863, 1866, 1867,  1868.  1870, 1872, 

1874, 1875, 1876, 1878, 1881,  1833,  1884,  1886,  1888,  1890,  and  1891, 

BT  JOHN   GREKNLEAF   WHITTIER,   TICKNOR  &   FIELDS,  JAMES  R. 

OSGOOD  &  CO.,  AMD  HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  &  CO. 

Copyright,  1892, 
BT  HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  &  CO. 

All  rights  reserved. 


The  Riverside  Press,  Cambridge,  Mass.,  U.  8.  A. 
Hectrotyped  and  Printed  by  H.  O.  Houghton  &  Company. 


-  32,5-0 


PUBLISHERS'  ADVERTISEMENT 

THE  Standard  Library  Edition  of  Mr.  Whittier's 
j      writings  comprises  his  poetical  and  prose  works  as 
j1     re-arranged  and  thoroughly  revised  by  himself  or 
with  his  cooperation.     Mr.  Whittier  has  supplied 
such  additional  information  regarding  the  subject 
and  occasion  of  certain  poems  as  may  be  stated  in 
*•£    brief  head-notes,  and  this  edition  has  been  much 
^    enriched  by  the  poet's  personal  comment.     So  far 
<M    as  practicable  the  dates  of  publication  of  the  vari- 
5    ous  articles  have  been  given,  and  since  these  were 
1    originally  published   soon   after   composition,  the 
dates  of  their  first  appearance  have  been  taken  as 
determining  the  time  at  which  they  were  written. 
A       At  the  request  of  the  Publishers,  Mr.  Whittier 
%)  has  allowed  his  early  poems,  discarded  from  pre- 
^  vious  collections,  to  be  placed,  in  the  general  order 
V  of  their  appearance,  in  an  appendix  to  the  final  vol- 
SQ  ume  of  poems.     By  this  means  the  present  edition 
.Js  made  so  complete  and  retrospective  that  students 
j  OT  the  poet's  career  will  always  find  the  most  abun- 
dant  material  for  their  purpose.     The  Publishers 
congratulate   themselves  and  the   public  that  the 
,  ^  careful  attention  which  Mr.  Whittier  has  been  able 
to  give  to  this  revision  of  his  works  has  resulted  in 
so  comprehensive  and  well-adjusted  a  collection. 


262525 


6  PUBLISHERS1  ADVERTISEMENT 

The  portraits  prefixed  to  the  several  volumes 
have  been  chosen  with  a  view  to  illustrating  suc- 
cessive periods  in  the  poet's  life.  The  original 
sources  and  dates  are  indicated  in  each  case. 


CONTENTS 


EfUH 

PROEM 11 

INTRODUCTION 13 

NARRATIVE  AND   LEGENDARY  POEMS. 

THE  VAUDOIS  TEACHEB 17 

THE  FEMALE  MARTYR 19 

EXTRACT  FROM  "A  NEW  ENGLAND  LEGEND".        .  23 

THE  DEMON  OF  THE  STUDY 25 

THE  FOUNTAIN 29 

PENTUCKET 33 

THE  NORSEMEN    .        .        . 37 

FUNERAL  TREE  OF  THE  SOKOKIS   ....  41 

ST.  JOHN       .        .        .                45 

THE  CYPRESS-TREE  OF  CEYLON      ....  50 

THE  EXILES 53 

THE  KNIGHT  OF  ST.  JOHN 62 

CASSANDRA  SOUTHWICK        .        .        .        .        .        .65 

THE  NEW  WIFE  AND  THE  OLD       ....  75 

THE  BRIDAL  OF  PENNACOOK       .        .        .      '.        .  79 

L   THE  MERRIMAC  ......  86 

II.  THE  BASHABA 88 

III.  THE  DAUGHTER.        .        .       „.  .    .        <  01 

IV.  THE  WEDDING 95 

V.    THE  NEW  HOME        .-...:       .  98 

VI.   AT  PENNACOOK 101 

VII.   THE  DEPARTURE        .        .        ;.,..  .   .     .  104 

VIII.   SONG  OF  INDIAN  WOMEN     .                          .  106 


CONTENTS 

BARCLAY  OF  UBY    .        .       '.       •       •        •       •  10^ 

THE  ANGELS  OF  BUENA  VISTA 112 

THE  LEGEND  OF  ST.  MARK 117 

KATHLEEN 120 

THE  WELL  OF  LOCH  MABEE 124 

THE  CHAPEL  OF  THE  HEKMITS 126 

TAULBB     .        .        .        .       .        .       .        .        .  141 

THE  HERMIT  OF  THE  THEBAID         ....  144 

MAUD  MULLER 148 

MARY  GARVIN 154 

THE  RANGER 160 

THE  GARRISON  OF  CAPE  ANN 166 

THE  GIFT  OF  TRITEMIUS 172 

SKIPPER  IRESON'S  RIDE 174 

THE  SYCAMORES 178 

THE  PIPES  AT  LUCKNOW 183 

TELLING  THE  BEES 186 

THE  SWAN  SONG  OF  PARSON  AVERY,       .        .        .  188 

THE  DOUBLE-HEADED  SNAKE  OF  NEWBURY         .  192 

MABEL  MARTIN:  A  HARVEST  IDYL  ....  195 

PROEM 196 

I.  THE  RIVER  VALLEY 197 

II.  THE  HUSKING 199 

III.  THE  WITCH'S  DAUGHTER  .        .        .        .201 

IV.  THE  CHAMPION 204 

V.  IN  THE  SHADOW 205 

VI.  THE  BETROTHAL 208 

THE  PROPHECY  OF  SAMUEL  SEWALL          .        .        .  210 

THE  RED  RIVER  VOYAGEUR 215 

THE  PREACHER 217 

THE  TRUCE  OF  PISCATAQUA 230 

MY  PLAYMATE 238 

COBBLER  KEEZ  Ait's  VISION 241 

AMY  WENTWORTH .        .  248 

THE  COUNTESS  253 


CONTENTS  9 

AMONG  THE  HILLS. 

PRELUDE 260 

AMONG  THE  HILLS 265 

THE  DOLE  OF  JARL  THOKKELL       ....  277 

THE  Two  RABBINS 282 

NOREMBEGA 285 

MIRIAM 289 

NAUHAUGHT,  THE  DEACON 304 

THE  SISTERS 308 

MARGUERITE 311 

THE  ROBIN 314 

THE  PENNSYLVANIA  PILGRIM. 

INTRODUCTORY  NOTE 316 

PRELUDE 322 

THE  PENNSYLVANIA  PILGRIM       ....  322 

KING  VOLMER  AND  ELSIE 345 

THE  THREE  BELLS 352 

JOHN  UNDERBILL 354 

CONDUCTOR  BRADLEY 359 

THE  WITCH  OF  WENHAM 360 

KING  SOLOMON  AND  THE  ANTS 369 

IN  THE  "OLD  SOUTH" 371 

THE  HENCHMAN 373 

THE  DEAD  FEAST  OF  THE  KOL-FOLK     ...  375 

THE  KHAN'S  DEVIL 378 

THE  KING'S  MISSIVE 381 

VALUATION 386 

RABBI  ISHMAEL 387 

THE  ROCK-TOMB  OF  BRADORE 388 

THE  BAY  OF  SEVEN  ISLANDS 390 

To  H.  P.  S .        .391 

THE  BAY  OF  SEVEN  ISLANDS  ....  392 

THE  WISHING  BRIDGE         ......  398 

How  THE  WOMEN  WENT  FROM  DOVER         .        .  400 

ST.  GREGORY'S  GUEST                  405 


10  CONTENTS 

BIKCHBBOOK  MILL    .        .        .        «        .        .        .  407 
THE  Two  ELIZABETHS         .       .        .       .        .        .409 

REQUITAL 413 

THE  HOMESTEAD 413 

How  THE  ROBIN  CAME 416 

BANISHED  FROM  MASSACHUSETTS        ....  419 

THE  BROWN  DWARF  OF  RUGEN     ....  421 

NOTES 429 

NOTE.  —  The  portrait  prefixed  to  this  volume  was  etched  by 
S.  A.  Schoff,  in  1888,  after  a  painting  by  Bass  Otis,  a  pupil  of 
Gilbert  Stuart,  made  in  the  winter  of  1836-1837. 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


PAGE 

JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER  AT  THE  AGE  OF  29.    Etched 
by  S.  A.  Schoff  after  a  painting  by  Bass  Otis,  a  pupil  of 

Gilbert  Stuart Frontispiece 

FAC-SIMILE    OF    MR.   WHITTIER' s    WRITING    (from    "  My 

Triumph")      .     .     .     .     , 12 

THE  NORSEMEN M.  J.  Burns    ....    38 

THE  SACHEM'S  DAUGHTER  .    .     .    Howard  Pyle  ....  104 

MAUD  MULLER Mary  Hallock  Foote    .  150 

TELLING  THE  BEES I.  H.  Caliga    ....  186 

MABEL  MARTIN C.  S.  Reinhart    ...  206 

AMY  WENTWORTH W.  L.  Sheppard  .     .     .250 

CHOCORUA Chas.  H.  Woodbury     .  266 

THE  WITCH  OF  WENHAM    .         .     Frank  T.  Merrill     .     .  368 


PROEM 

I  LOVE  the  old  melodious  lays 

Which  softly  melt  the  ages  through, 

The  songs  of  Spenser's  golden  days, 
Arcadian  Sidney's  silvery  phrase. 

Sprinkling  our  noon  of  time  with  freshest  morning 
dew. 

Yet,  vainly  in  my  quiet  hours 
To  breathe  their  marvellous  notes  I  try ; 

I  feel  them,  as  the  leaves  and  flowers 
In  silence  feel  the  dewy  showers, 
And  drink  with  glad,  still  lips  the  blessing  of  the 


The  rigor  of  a  frozen  clime, 

The  harshness  of  an  untaught  ear, 

The  jarring  words  of  one  whose  rhyme 
Beat  often  Labor's  hurried  time, 

Or  Duty's  rugged  march  through  storm  and  strife, 
are  here. 

Of  mystic  beauty,  dreamy  grace, 

No  rounded  art  the  lack  supplies  ; 

Unskilled  the  subtle  lines  to  trace, 
Or  softer  shades  of  Nature's  face, 

I  view  her  common  forms  with  unanointed  eyes. 


12  PROEM 

Nor  mine  the  seer-like  power  to  show 

The  secrets  of  the  heart  and  mind  ; 

To  drop  the  plummet-line  below 
Our  common  world  of  joy  and  woe, 

A  more  intense  despair  or  brighter  hope  to  find. 

Yet  here  at  least  an  earnest  sense 
Of  human  right  and  weal  is  shown  ; 

A  hate  of  tyranny  intense, 

And  hearty  in  its  vehemence, 
As  if  my  brother's  pain  and  sorrow  were  my  own. 

O  Freedom  !  if  to  me  belong 
Nor  mighty  Milton's  gift  divine, 

Nor  Marvell's  wit  and  graceful  song, 

Still  with  a  love  as  deep  and  strong 

As  theirs,  I  lay,  like  them,  my  best  gifts  on  thy 

shrine ! 
AMESBUBT,  llth  mo.,  1847. 


INTRODUCTION 

THE  edition  of  my  poems  published  in  1857  con- 
tained the  following  note  by  way  of  preface  :  — 

"  In  these  volumes,  for  the  first  time,  a  complete 
collection  of  my  poetical  writings  has  been  made. 
While  it  is  satisfactory  to  know  that  these  scattered 
children  of  my  brain  have  found  a  home,  I  cannot 
but  regret  that  I  have  been  unable,  by  reason  of 
illness,  to  give  that  attention  to  their  revision  and 
arrangement,  which  respect  for  the  opinions  of 
others  and  my  own  afterthought  and  experience 
demand. 

"  That  there  are  pieces  in  this  collection  which 
I  would  '  willingly  let  die,'  1  am  free  to  confess. 
But  it  is  now  too  late  to  disown  them,  and  I  must 
submit  to  the  inevitable  penalty  of  poetical  as  well 
as  other  sins.  There  are  others,  intimately  con- 
nected with  the  author's  life  and  times,  which  owe 
their  tenacity  of  vitality  to  the  circumstances  under 
which  they  were  written,  and  the  events  by  which 
they  were  suggested. 

"  The  long  poem  of  Mogg  Megone  was  in  a 
great  measure  composed  in  early  life;  and  it  is 
scarcely  necessary  to  say  that  its  subject  is  not  such 
as  the  writer  would  have  chosen  at  any  subsequent 
period." 

After  a  lapse  of  thirty  years  since  the  above 
was  written,  I  have  been  requested  by  my  pub- 


14  INTR  OD  UC  TION 

lishers  to  make  some  preparation  for  a  new  and 
revised  edition  of  my  poems.  I  cannot  flatter  my- 
self that  I  have  added  much  to  the  interest  of  the 
work  beyond  the  correction  of  my  own  errors  and 
those  of  the  press,  with  the  addition  of  a  few  here- 
tofore unpublished  pieces,  and  occasional  notes  of 
explanation  which  seemed  necessary.  I  have  made 
an  attempt  to  classify  the  poems  under  a  few  gen- 
eral heads,  and  have  transferred  the  long  poem  of 
Mogg  Megone  to  the  Appendix,  with  other  speci- 
mens of  my  earlier  writings.  I  have  endeavored  to 
affix  the  dates  of  composition  or  publication  as  far 


In  looking  over  these  poems  I  have  not  been 
unmindful  of  occasional  prosaic  lines  and  verbal 
infelicities,  but  at  this  late  day  I  have  neither 
strength  nor  patience  to  undertake  their  correc- 
tion. 

Perhaps  a  word  of  explanation  may  be  needed 
in  regard  to  a  class  of  poems  written  between  the 
years  1832  and  1865.  Of  their  defects  from  an 
artistic  point  of  view  it  is  not  necessary  to  speak. 
They  were  the  earnest  and  often  vehement  ex- 
pression of  the  writer's  thought  and  feeling  at  crit- 
ical periods  in  the  great  conflict  between  Freedom 
and  Slavery.  They  were  written  with  no  expec- 
tation that  they  would  survive  the  occasions  which 
called  them  forth  :  they  were  protests,  alarm  sig- 
nals, trumpet-calls  to  action,  words  wrung  from 
the  writer's  heart,  forged  at  white  heat,  and  of 
course  lacking  the  finish  and  careful  word-selection 
which  reflection  and  patient  brooding  over  them 
might  have  given.  Such  as  they  are,  they  belong 


INTRODUCTION  15 

to  the  history  of  the  Anti-Slavery  movement,  and 
may  serve  as  way-marks  of  its  progress.  If  their 
language  at  times  seems  severe  and  harsh,  the  mon- 
strous wrong  of  Slavery  which  provoked  it  must 
be  its  excuse,  if  any  is  needed.  In  attacking  it, 
we  did  not  measure  our  words.  "  It  is,"  said  Gar- 
rison, "  a  waste  of  politeness  to  be  courteous  to  the 
devil."  But  in  truth  the  contest  was,  in  a  great 
measure,  an  impersonal  one,  —  hatred  of  slavery 
and  not  of  slave-masters. 

"No  common  wrong  provoked  our  zeal, 
The  silken  gauntlet  which  is  thrown 
In  such  a  quarrel  rings  like  steel. ' ' 

Even  Thomas  Jefferson,  in  his  terrible  denuncia- 
tion of  Slavery  in  the  Notes  on  Virginia,  says : 
"  It  is  impossible  to  be  temperate  and  pursue  the 
subject  of  Slavery." 

After  the  great  contest  was  over,  no  class  of  the 
American  people  were  more  ready,  with  kind  words 
and  deprecation  of  harsh  retaliation,  to  welcome 
back  the  revolted  States  than  the  Abolitionists  ; 
and  none  have  since  more  heartily  rejoiced  at  the 
fast  increasing  prosperity  of  the  South. 

Grateful  for  the  measure  of  favor  which  has 
been  accorded  to  my  writings,  I  leave  this  edition 
with  the  public.  It  contains  all  that  I  care  to  re- 
publish,  and  some  things  which,  had  the  matter  of 
choice  been  left  solely  to  myself,  I  should  have 
omitted. 

J.  G.  W 


NARRATIVE  AND   LEGENDARY 
POEMS 

THE  VAUDOIS  TEACHER. 

This  poem  was  suggested  by  the  account  given  of  the  manner 
in  which  the  Waldenses  disseminated  their  principles  among  the 
Catholic  gentry.  They  gained  access  to  the  house  through  their 
occupation  as  peddlers  of  silks,  jewels,  and  trinkets.  "Having 
disposed  of  some  of  their  goods,"  it  is  said  by  a  writer  who 
quotes  the  inquisitor  Rainerus  Sacco,  ' '  they  cautiously  intimated 
that  they  had  commodities  far  more  valuable  than  these,  inesti- 
mable jewels,  which  they  would  show  if  they  could  be  protected 
from  the  clergy.  They  would  then  give  their  purchasers  a  Bible 
or  Testament;  and  thereby  many  were  deluded  into  heresy." 

The  poem,  under  the  title  Le  Colporteur  Vaudois,  was  translated 
into  French  by  Professor  G.  de  Felice,  of  Montauban,  and  further 
naturalized  by  Professor  Alexandre  Rodolphe  Vinet,  who  quoted 
it  in  his  lectures  on  French  literature,  afterwards  published.  It 
became  familiar  in  this  form  to  the  Waldenses,  who  adopted  it 
as  a  household  poem.  An  American  clergyman,  J.  C.  Fletcher, 
frequently  heard  it  when  he  was  a  student,  about  the  year  1850, 
in  the  theological  seminary  at  Geneva,  Switzerland,  but  the  au- 
thorship of  the  poem  was  unknown  to  those  who  used  it.  Twenty- 
five  years  later,  Mr.  Fletcher,  learning  the  name  of  the  author, 
wrote  to  the  moderator  of  the  Waldensian  synod  at  La  Tour,  giv- 
ing the  information.  At  the  banquet  which  closed  the  meeting 
of  the  synod,  the  moderator  announced  the  fact,  and  was  in- 
structed in  the  name  of  the  Waldensian  church  to  write  to  me  a 
letter  of  thanks.  My  letter,  written  in  reply,  was  translated  into 
Italian  and  printed  throughout  Italy. 

"  O  LADY  fair,  these  silks  of  mine  are  beautiful 

and  rare,  — 
The  richest  web  of  the  Indian  loom,  which  beauty's 

queen  might  wear; 

VOL.  I.          2 


18    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

And  my  pearls  are  pure  as  thy  own  fair  neck,  with 

whose  radiant  light  they  vie  ; 
I  have  brought  them  with  me  a  weary  way,  —  will 

my  gentle  lady  buy  ?  " 

The  lady  smiled  on  the  worn  old  man  through  the 

dark  and  clustering  curls 
Which  veiled  her  brow,  as  she  bent  to  view  his 

silks  and  glittering  pearls ; 
And  she  placed  their  price  in  the  old  man's  hand 

and  lightly  turned  away, 
But  she  paused  at  the  wanderer's  earnest  call,  — 

"  My  gentle  lady,  stay ! 

"  O  lady  fair,  I  have  yet  a  gem  which  a  purer 
lustre  flings, 

Than  the  diamond  flash  of  the  jewelled  crown  on 
the  lofty  brow  of  kings  ; 

A  wonderful  pearl  of  exceeding  price,  whose  virtue 
shall  not  decay, 

Whose  light  shall  be  as  a  spell  to  thee  and  a  bless- 
ing on  thy  way  !  " 

The  lady  glanced  at  the  mirroring  steel  where  her 

form  of  grace  was  seen, 
Where  her  eye  shone  clear,  and  her  dark  locks 

waved  their  clasping  pearls  between ; 
"  Bring  forth  thy  pearl  of  exceeding  worth,  thou 

traveller  gray  and  old, 
And  name  the  price  of  thy  precious  gem,  and  my 

page  shall  count  thy  gold." 

The  cloud  went  off  from  the  pilgrim's  brow,  as  a 
small  and  meagre  book, 


THE  FEMALE  MARTYR  19 

Unchased  with  gold  or  gem  of  cost,  from  his  fold- 
ing robe  he  took ! 

"  Here,  lady  fair,  is  the  pearl  of  price,  may  it  prove 
as  such  to  thee  ! 

Nay,  keep  thy  gold  —  I  ask  it  not,  for  the  word  of 
God  is  free !  " 

The  hoary  traveller  went  his  way,  but  the  gift  he 
left  behind 

Hath  had  its  pure  and  perfect  work  on  that  high- 
born maiden's  mind, 

And  she  hath  turned  from  the  pride  of  sin  to  the 
lowliness  of  truth, 

And  given  her  human  heart  to  God  in  its  beauti- 
ful hour  of  youth ! 

And  she  hath  left  the  gray  old  halls,  where  an  evil 

faith  had  power, 
The  courtly  knights  of  her  father's  train,  and  the 

maidens  of  her  bower  ; 
And  she  hath  gone  to  the  Vaudois  vales  by  lordly 

feet  untrod, 
Where  the  poor  and  needy  of  earth  are  rich  in  the 

perfect  love  of  God ! 
1830. 

THE  FEMALE  MARTYR. 

Mary  G ,  aged  eighteen,  a  "Sister  of  Charity,"  died  in  one 

of  our  Atlantic  cities,  during  the  prevalence  of  the  Indian  chol- 
era, while  in  voluntary  attendance  upon  the  sick. 

"  BRING  out  your  dead  !  "     The  midnight  street 
Heard  and  gave  back  the  hoarse,  low  call ; 


20    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

Harsh  fell  the  tread  of  hasty  feet, 

Glanced  through  the  dark  the  coarse  white  sheet, 

Her  coffin  and  her  pall. 

"  What  —  only  one !  "  the  brutal  hack-man  said, 
As,  with  an  oath,  he  spurned  away  the  dead. 

How  sunk  the  inmost  hearts  of  all, 

As  rolled  that  dead-cart  slowly  by, 
With  creaking  wheel  and  harsh  hoof-fall! 
The  dying  turned  him  to  the  wall, 

To  hear  it  and  to  die  ! 

Onward  it  rolled  ;  while  oft  its  driver  stayed, 
And  hoarsely  clamored,    "Ho!    bring   out  your 
dead." 

It  paused  beside  the  burial-place ; 

"  Toss  in  your  load !  "  and  it  was  done. 
With  quick  hand  and  averted  face, 
Hastily  to  the  grave's  embrace 

They  cast  them,  one  by  one, 
Stranger  and  friend,  the  evil  and  the  just, 
Together  trodden  in  the  churchyard  dust ! 

And  thou,  young  martyr !  thou  wast  there  ; 

No  white-robed  sisters  round  thee  trod, 
Nor  holy  hymn,  nor  funeral  prayer 
Rose  through  the  damp  and  noisome  air, 

Giving  thee  to  thy  God  ; 
Nor  flower,  nor  cross,  nor  hallowed  taper  gave 
Grace  to  the  dead,  and  beauty  to  the  grave  ! 

Yet,  gentle  sufferer !  there  shall  be, 
In  every  heart  of  kindly  feeling, 


THE  FEMALE  MARTYR  21 

A  rite  as  holy  paid  to  thee 
As  if  beneath  the  convent-tree 

Thy  sisterhood  were  kneeling, 
At  vesper  hours,  like  sorrowing  angels,  keeping 
Their  tearful  watch  around  thy  place  of  sleeping. 

For  thou  wast  one  in  whom  the  light 

Of  Heaven's  own  love  was  kindled  well ; 
Enduring  with  a  martyr's  might, 
Through  weary  day  and  wakeful  night, 

Far  more  than  words  may  tell : 
Gentle,  and  meek,  and  lowly,  and  unknown, 
Thy  mercies  measured  by  thy  God  alone  ! 

Where  manly  hearts  were  failing,  where 
The  throngful  street  grew  foul  with  death, 

O  high-souled  martyr  !  thou  wast  there, 

Inhaling,  from  the  loathsome  air, 
Poison  with  every  breath. 

Yet  shrinking  not  from  offices  of  dread 

For  the  wrung  dying,  and  the  unconscious  dead. 

And,  where  the  sickly  taper  shed 

Its  light  through  vapors,  damp,  confined, 

Hushed  as  a  seraph's  fell  thy  tread, 

A  new  Electra  by  the  bed 
Of  suffering  human-kind ! 

Pointing  the  spirit,  in  its  dark  dismay, 

To  that  pure  hope  which  fadeth  not  away. 

Innocent  teacher  of  the  high 

And  holy  mysteries  of  Heaven ! 
How  turned  to  thee  each  glazing  eye, 


22    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

In  mute  and  awful  sympathy, 

As  thy  low  prayers  were  given  ; 
And  the  o'er-hovering  Spoiler  wore,  the  while, 
An  angel's  features,  a  deliverer's  smile ! 

A  blessed  task !  and  worthy  one 

Who,  turning  from  the  world,  as  thou, 
Before  life's  pathway  had  begun 
To  leave  its  spring-time  flower  and  sun, 

Had  sealed  her  early  vow ; 
Giving  to  God  her  beauty  and  her  youth, 
Her  pure  affections  and  her  guileless  truth. 

Earth  may  not  claim  thee.     Nothing  here 
Could  be  for  thee  a  meet  reward ; 

Thine  is  a  treasure  far  more  dear  : 

Eye  hath  not  seen  it,  nor  the  ear 
Of  living  mortal  heard 

The  joys  prepared,  the  promised  bliss  above, 

The  holy  presence  of  Eternal  Love  ! 

Sleep  on  in  peace.     The  earth  has  not 
A  nobler  name  than  thine  shall  be. 

The  deeds  by  martial  manhood  wrought, 

The  lofty  energies  of  thought, 
The  fire  of  poesy, 

These  have  but  frail  and  fading  honors ;  thine 

Shall  Time  unto  Eternity  consign. 

Yea,  and  when  thrones  shall  crumble  down, 

And  human  pride  and  grandeur  fall, 
The  herald's  line  of  long  renown, 
The  mitre  and  the  kingly  crown,  — 
Perishing  glories  all ! 


"A   NEW  ENGLAND  LEGEND"  23 

The  pure  devotion  of  thy  generous  heart 
Shall  live  in  Heaven,  of  which  it  was  a  part. 

1833. 


EXTRACT  FROM  "A  NEW  ENGLAND 
LEGEND." 

Originally  a  part  of  the  author's  Mott  Pitcher. 

How  has  New  England's  romance  fled, 

Even  as  a  vision  of  the  morning ! 
Its  rites  foredone,  its  guardians  dead, 
Its  priestesses,  bereft  of  dread, 

Waking  the  veriest  urchin's  scorning  ! 
Gone  like  the  Indian  wizard's  yell 

And  fire-dance  round  the  magic  rock, 
Forgotten  like  the  Druid's  spell 

At  moonrise  by  his  holy  oak ! 
No  more  along  the  shadowy  glen 
Glide  the  dim  ghosts  of  murdered  men  ; 
No  more  the  unquiet  churchyard  dead 
Glimpse  upward  from  their  turfy  bed, 

Startling  the  traveller,  late  and  lone ; 
As,  on  some  night  of  starless  weather, 
They  silently  commune  together, 

Each  sitting  on  his  own  head-stone  ! 
The  roofless  house,  decayed,  deserted, 
Its  living  tenants  all  departed, 
No  longer  rings  with  midnight  revel 
Of  witch,  or  ghost,  or  goblin  evil ; 
No  pale  blue  flame  sends  out  its  flashes 
Through  creviced  roof  and  shattered  sashes ! 
The  witch-grass  round  the  hazel  spring 
May  sharply  to  the  night-air  sing, 


24    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 
But  there  no  more  shall  withered  hags 
Refresh  at  ease  their  broomstick  nags, 
Or  taste  those  hazel-shadowed  waters 
As  beverage  meet  for  Satan's  daughters ; 
No  more  their  mimic  tones  be  heard, 
The  mew  of  cat,  the  chirp  of  bird, 
Shrill  blending  with  the  hoarser  laughter 
Of  the  fell  demon  following  after  ! 
The  cautious  goodman   nails  no  more 
A  horseshoe  on  his  outer  door, 
Lest  some  unseemly  hag  should  fit 
To  his  own  mouth  her  bridle-bit ; 
The  goodwife's  churn  no  more  refuses 
Its  wonted  culinary  uses 
Until,  with  heated  needle  burned, 
The  witch  has  to  her  place  returned ! 
Our  witches  are  no  longer  old 
And  wrinkled  beldames,  Satan-sold, 
But  young  and  gay  and  laughing  creatures. 
With  the  heart's  sunshine  on  their  features  ; 
Their  sorcery  —  the  light  which  dances 
Where  the  raised  lid  unveils  its  glances  ; 
Or  that  low-breathed  and  gentle  tone, 

The  music  of  Love's  twilight  hours, 
Soft,  dream-like,  as  a  fairy's  moan 

Above  her  nightly  closing  flowers, 
Sweeter  than  that  which  sighed  of  yore 
Along  the  charmed  Ausonian  shore  ! 
Even  she,  our  own  weird  heroine, 
Sole  Pythoness  of   ancient  Lynn,1 

Sleeps  calmly  where  the  living  laid  her ; 
And  the  wide  realm  of  sorcery, 
Left  by  its  latest  mistress  free, 

Hath  found  no  gray  and  skilled  invader. 


THE  DEMON  OF  THE  STUDY      25 

So  perished  Albion's  "  glammarye," 

With  him  in  Melrose  Abbey  sleeping, 
His  charme'd  torch  beside  his  knee, 
That  even  the  dead  himself  might  see 

The  magic  scroll  within  his  keeping. 
And  now  our  modern  Yankee  sees 
Nor  omens,  spells,  nor  mysteries  ; 
And  naught  above,  below,  around, 
Of  life  or  death,  of  sight  or  sound, 

Whate'er  its  nature,  form,  or  look, 
Excites  his  terror  or  surprise,  — 
All  seeming  to  his  knowing  eyes 
Familiar  as  his  "  catechise," 

Or  «  Webster's  Spelling-Book." 
1833. 


THE  DEMON  OF  THE  STUDY. 

THE  Brownie  sits  in  the  Scotchman's  room, 
And  eats  his  meat  and  drinks  his  ale, 

And  beats  the  maid  with  her  unused  broom, 
And  the  lazy  lout  with  his  idle  flail ; 

But  he  sweeps  the  floor  and  threshes  the  corn, 

And  hies  him  away  ere  the  break  of  dawn. 

The  shade  of  Denmark  fled  from  the  sun, 

And  the  Cocklane  ghost  from  the  barn-loft  cheer, 

The  fiend  of  Faust  was  a  faithful  one, 
Agrippa's  demon  wrought  in  fear, 

And  the  devil  of  Martin  Luther  sat 

By  the  stout  monk's  side  in  social  chat. 


26    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

The  Old  Man  of  the  Sea,  on  the  neck  of  him 
Who  seven  times  crossed  the  deep, 

Twined  closely  each  lean  and  withered  limb, 
Like  the  nightmare  in  one's  sleep. 

But  he  drank  of  the  wine,  and  Sindbad  cast 

The  evil  weight  from  his  back  at  last. 

But  the  demon  that  cometh  day  by  day 
To  my  quiet  room  and  fireside  nook, 

Where  the  casement  light  falls  dim  and  gray 
On  faded  painting  and  ancient  book, 

Is  a  sorrier  one  than  any  whose  names 

Are  chronicled  well  by  good  King  James. 

No  bearer  of  burdens  like  Caliban, 

No  runner  of  errands  like  Ariel, 
He  comes  in  the  shape  of  a  fat  old  man, 

Without  rap  of  knuckle  or  pull  of  bell ; 
And  whence  he  comes,  or  whither  he  goes, 
I  know  as  I  do  of  the  wind  which  blows. 

A  stout  old  man  with  a  greasy  hat 

Slouched  heavily  down  to  his  dark,  red  nose, 
And  two  gray  eyes  enveloped  in  fat, 

Looking  through  glasses  with  iron  bows. 
Read  ye,  and  heed  ye,  and  ye  who  can, 
Guard  well  your  doors  from  that  old  man  ! 

He  comes  with  a  careless  "  How  d'  ye  do  ?  " 
And  seats  himself  in  my  elbow-chair ; 

And  my  morning  paper  and  pamphlet  new 
Fall  forthwith  under  his  special  care, 

And  he  wipes  his  glasses  and  clears  his  throat, 

And,  button  by  button,  unfolds  his  coat. 


THE  DEMON  OF  THE  STUDY       27 

And  then  he  reads  from  paper  and  book, 

In  a  low  and  husky  asthmatic  tone, 
With  the  stolid  sameness  of  posture  and  look 

Of  one  who  reads  to  himself  alone  ; 
And  hour  after  hour  on  my  senses  come 
That  husky  wheeze  and  that  dolorous  hum. 

The  price  of  stocks,  the  auction  sales, 
The  poet's  song  and  the  lover's  glee, 

The  horrible  murders,  the  seaboard  gales, 
The  marriage  list,  and  thejeu  d1  esprit, 

All  reach  my  ear  in  the  self-same  tone,  — 

I  shudder  at  each,  but  the  fiend  reads  on ! 

Oh,  sweet  as  the  lapse  of  water  at  noon 
O'er  the  mossy  roots  of  some  forest  tree, 

The  sigh  of  the  wind  in  the  woods  of  June, 
Or  sound  of  flutes  o'er  a  moonlight  sea, 

Or  the  low  soft  music,  perchance,  which  seems 

To  float  through  the  slumbering  singer's  dreams, 

So  sweet,  so  dear  is  the  silvery  tone, 

Of  her  in  whose  features  I  sometimes  look, 

As  I  sit  at  eve  by  her  side  alone, 

And  we  read  by  turns,  from  the  self -same  book, 

Some  tale  perhaps  of  the  olden  time, 

Some  lover's  romance  or  quaint  old  rhyme. 

Then  when  the  story  is  one  of  woe,  — 

Some  prisoner's  plaint  through  his  dungeon-bar, 

Her  blue  eye  glistens  with  tears,  and  low 
Her  voice  sinks  down  like  a  moan  afar  ; 

And  I  seem  to  hear  that  prisoner's  wail, 

And  his  face  looks  on  me  worn  and  pale. 


28    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

And  when  she  reads  some  merrier  song, 
Her  Toice  is  glad  as  an  April  bird's, 

And  when  the  tale  is  of  war  and  wrong, 
A  trumpet's  summons  is  in  her  words, 

And  the  rush  of  the  hosts  I  seem  to  hear, 

And  see  the  tossing  of  plume  and  spear ! 

Oh,  pity  me  then,  when,  day  by  day, 
The  stout  fiend  darkens  my  parlor  door ; 

And  reads  me  perchance  the  self-same  lay 
Which  melted  in  music,  the  night  before, 

From  lips  as  the  lips  of  Hylas  sweet, 

And  moved  like  twin  roses  which  zephyrs  meet ! 

I  cross  my  floor  with  a  nervous  tread, 
I  whistle  and  laugh  and  sing  and  shout, 

I  flourish  my  cane  above  his  head, 
And  stir  up  the  fire  to  roast  him  out ; 

I  topple  the  chairs,  and  drum  on  the  pane, 

And  press  my  hands  on  my  ears,  in  vain ! 

I  've  studied  Glanville  and  James  the  wise, 
And  wizard  black-letter  tomes  which  treat 

Of  demons  of  every  name  and  size 

Which  a  Christian  man  is  presumed  to  meet, 

But  never  a  hint  and  never  a  line 

Can  I  find  of  a  reading  fiend  like  mine. 

I  've  crossed  the  Psalter  with  Brady  and  Tate, 
And  laid  the  Primer  above  them  all, 

I  've  nailed  a  horseshoe  over  the  grate, 
And  hung  a  wig  to  my  parlor  wall 

Once  worn  by  a  learned  Judge,  they  say, 

At  Salem  court  in  the  witchcraft  day ! 


THE  FOUNTAIN  29 

"  Conjuro  te,  sceleratissime, 

Abire  ad  tuum  locum  !  "  —  still 
Like  a  visible  nightmare  he  sits  by  me,  — 

The  exorcism  has  lost  its  skill ; 
And  I  hear  again  in  my  haunted  room 
The  husky  wheeze  and  the  dolorous  hum ! 

Ah  !  commend  me  to  Mary  Magdalen 

With  her  sevenfold  plagues,  to  the  wandering 

Jew, 
To  the  terrors  which  haunted  Orestes  when 

The  furies  his  midnight  curtains  drew, 
But  charm  him  off,  ye  who  charm  him  can, 
That  reading  demon,  that  fat  old  man  1 

1835. 


THE  FOUNTAIN. 

On  the  declivity  of  a  hill  in  Salisbury,  Essex  County,  is  a  foun- 
tain of  clear  water,  gushing  from  the  very  roots  of  a  venerable  oak. 
It  is  about  two  miles  from  the  junction  of  the  Powow  River  with 
the  Merrimac. 

TRAVELLEE  !  on  thy  journey  toiling 

By  the  swift  Powow, 
With  the  summer  sunshine  falling 

On  thy  heated  brow, 
Listen,  while  all  else  is  still, 
To  the  brooklet  from  the  hill. 

Wild  and  sweet  the  flowers  are  blowing 

By  that  streamlet's  side, 
And  a  greener  verdure  showing 

Where  its  waters  glide, 


30   NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

Down  the  hill-slope  murmuring  on, 
Over  root  and  mossy  stone. 

Where  yon  oak  his  broad  arms  flingeth 

O'er  the  sloping  hill, 
Beautiful  and  freshly  springeth 

That  soft-flowing  rill, 

Through  its  dark  roots  wreathed  and  bare, 
Gushing  up  to  sun  and  air. 

Brighter  waters  sparkled  never 

In  that  magic  well, 
Of  whose  gift  of  life  forever 

Ancient  legends  tell, 
In  the  lonely  desert  wasted, 
And  by  mortal  lip  untasted. 

Waters  which  the  proud  Castilian 

Sought  with  longing  eyes, 
Underneath  the  bright  pavilion 

Of  the  Indian  skies, 
Where  his  forest  pathway  lay 
Through  the  blooms  of  Florida. 

Years  ago  a  lonely  stranger, 

With  the  dusky  brow 
Of  the  outcast  forest-ranger, 

Crossed  the  swift  Powow, 
And  betook  him  to  the  rill 
And  the  oak  upon  the  hill. 

O'er  his  face  of  moody  sadness 
For  an  instant  shone 


THE  FOUNTAIN  31 

Something  like  a  gleam  of  gladness, 

As  he  stooped  him  down 
To  the  fountain's  grassy  side, 
And  his  eager  thirst  supplied. 

"With  the  oak  its  shadow  throwing 

O'er  his  mossy  seat, 
And  the  cool,  sweet  waters  flowing 

Softly  at  his  feet, 
Closely  by  the  fountain's  rim 
That  lone  Indian  seated  him. 

Autumn's  earliest  frost  had  given 

To  the  woods  below 
Hues  of  beauty,  such  as  heaven 

Lendeth  to  its  bow  ; 
And  the  soft  breeze  from  the  west 
Scarcely  broke  their  dreamy  rest. 

Far  behind  was  Ocean  striving 

With  his  chains  of  sand  ; 
Southward,  sunny  glimpses  giving, 

'Twixt  the  swells  of  land, 
Of  its  calm  and  silvery  track, 
Rolled  the  tranquil  Merrimac. 

Over  village,  wood,  and  meadow 

Gazed  that  stranger  man, 
Sadly,  till  the  twilight  shadow 

Over  all  things  ran, 
Save  where  spire  and  westward  pane 
Flashed  the  sunset  back  again. 


32    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

Gazing  thus  upon  the  dwelling 

Of  his  warrior  sires, 
Where  no  lingering  trace  was  telling 

Of  their  wigwam  fires, 
Who  the  gloomy  thoughts  might  know 
Of  that  wandering  child  of  woe  ? 

Naked  lay,  in  sunshine  glowing, 

Hills  that  once  had  stood 
Down  their  sides  the  shadows  throwing 

Of  a  mighty  wood, 
Where  the  deer  his  covert  kept, 
And  the  eagle's  pinion  swept ! 

Where  the  birch  canoe  had  glided 

Down  the  swift  Powow, 
Dark  and  gloomy  bridges  strided 

Those  clear  waters  now  ; 
And  where  once  the  beaver  swam, 
Jarred  the  wheel  and  frowned  the  dam. 

For  the  wood-bird's  merry  singing, 

And  the  hunter's  cheer, 
Iron  clang  and  hammer's  ringing 

Smote  upon  his  ear  ; 
And  the  thick  and  sullen  smoke 
From  the  blackened  forges  broke. 

Could  it  be  his  fathers  ever 

Loved  to  linger  here  ? 
These  bare  hills,  this  conquered  river,  — 

Could  they  hold  them  dear, 
With  their  native  loveliness 
Tamed  and  tortured  into  this  ? 


PEN  TUCKET  33 

Sadly,  as  the  shades  of  even 

Gathered  o'er  the  hill, 
While  the  western  half  of  heaven 

Blushed  with  sunset  still, 
From  the  fountain's  mossy  seat 
Turned  the  Indian's  weary  feet. 

Year  on  year  hath  flown  forever, 

But  he  came  no  more 
To  the  hillside  on  the  river 

Where  he  came  before. 
But  the  villager  can  tell 
Of  that  strange  man's  visit  well. 

And  the  merry  children,  laden 
With  their  fruits  or  flowers,  — 

Roving  boy  and  laughing  maiden, 
In  their  school-day  hours, 

Love  the  simple  tale  to  tell 

Of  the  Indian  and  his  well. 
1837. 


PENTUCKET. 

The  village  of  Haverhill,  on  the  Merrimac,  called  by  the  In- 
dians Pentucket,  was  for  nearly  seventeen  years  a  frontier  town, 
and  during  thirty  years  endured  all  the  horrors  of  savage  war- 
fare. In  the  year  1708,  a  combined  body  of  French  and  Indians, 
under  the  command  of  De  Chaillons,  and  Hertel  de  Eouville,  the 
infamous  and  bloody  sacker  of  Deerfield,  made  an  attack  upon 
the  village,  which  at  that  time  contained  only  thirty  houses. 
Sixteen  of  the  villagers  were  massacred,  and  a  still  larger  num- 
ber made  prisoners.  About  thirty  of  the  enemy  also  fell, 
and  among  them  Hertel  de  Rouville.  The  minister  of  the  place, 
Benjamin  Rolfe,  was  killed  by  a  shot  through  his  own  door. 


34    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

In  a  paper  entitled  The  Border  War  of  1708,  published  in  my 
collection  of  Eecreations  and  Miscellanies,  I  have  given  a  prose 
narrative  of  the  surprise  of  Haverhill. 

How  sweetly  on  the  wood-girt  town 
The  mellow  light  of  sunset  shone  ! 
Each  small,  bright  lake,  whose  waters  still 
Mirror  the  forest  and  the  hill, 
Reflected  from  its  waveless  breast 
The  beauty  of  a  cloudless  west, 
Glorious  as  if  a  glimpse  were  given 
Within  the  western  gates  of  heaven, 
Left,  by  the  spirit  of  the  star 
Of  sunset's  holy  hour,  ajar  ! 

Beside  the  river's  tranquil  flood 
The  dark  and  low-walled  dwellings  stood, 
Where  many  a  rood  of  open  land 
Stretched  up  and  down  on  either  hand, 
With  corn-leaves  waving  freshly  green 
The  thick  and  blackened  stumps  between. 
Behind,  unbroken,  deep  and  dread, 
The  wild,  untravelled  forest  spread, 
Back  to  those  mountains,  white  and  cold, 
Of  which  the  Indian  trapper  told, 
Upon  whose  summits  never  yet 
Was  mortal  foot  in  safety  set. 

Quiet  and  calm  without  a  fear, 
Of  danger  darkly  lurking  near, 
The  weary  laborer  left  his  plough, 
The  milkmaid  carolled  by  her  cow ; 
From  cottage  door  and  household  hearth 
Rose  songs  of  praise,  or  tones  of  mirth. 


PENTUCKET  35 

At  length  the  murmur  died  away, 

And  silence  on  that  village  lay. 

—  So  slept  Pompeii,  tower  and  hall, 

Ere  the  quick  earthquake  swallowed  all, 

Undreaming  of  the  fiery  fate 

Which  made  its  dwellings  desolate ! 

Hours  passed  away.     By  moonlight  sped 
The  Merrimac  along  his  bed. 
Bathed  in  the  pallid  lustre,  stood 
Dark  cottage-wall  and  rock  and  wood, 
Silent,  beneath  that  tranquil  beam, 
As  the  hushed  grouping  of  a  dream. 
Yet  on  the  still  air  crept  a  sound, 
No  bark  of  fox,  nor  rabbit's  bound, 
Nor  stir  of  wings,  nor  waters  flowing, 
Nor  leaves  in  midnight  breezes  blowing. 

"Was  that  the  tread  of  many  feet, 
Which  downward  from  the  hillside  beat  ? 
What  forms  were  those  which  darkly  stood 
Just  on  the  margin  of  the  wood  ?  — 
Charred  tree-stumps  in  the  moonlight  dim, 
Or  paling  rude,  or  leafless  limb  ? 
No,  —  through  the  trees  fierce  eyeballs  glowed, 
Dark  human  forms  in  moonshine  showed, 
Wild  from  their  native  wilderness, 
With  painted  limbs  and  battle-dress ! 

A  yell  the  dead  might  wake  to  hear 
Swelled  on  the  night  air,  far  and  clear ; 
Then  smote  the  Indian  tomahawk 
On  crashing  door  and  shattering  lock ; 


36    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

Then  rang  the  rifle-shot,  and  then 
The  shrill  death-scream  of  stricken  men,  — 
Sank  the  red  axe  in  woman's  brain, 
And  childhood's  cry  arose  in  vain. 
Bursting  through  roof  and  window  came, 
Red,  fast,  and  fierce,  the  kindled  flame, 
And  blended  fire  and  moonlight  glared 
On  still  dead  men  and  scalp-knives  bared. 

The  morning  sun  looked  brightly  through 
The  river  willows,  wet  with  dew. 
No  sound  of  combat  filled  the  air, 
No  shout  was  heard,  nor  gunshot  there ; 
Yet  still  the  thick  and  sullen  smoke 
From  smouldering  ruins  slowly  broke  ; 
And  on  the  greensward  many  a  stain, 
And,  here  and  there,  the  mangled  slain, 
Told  how  that  midnight  bolt  had  sped 
Pentucket,  on  thy  fated  head ! 

Even  now  the  villager  can  tell 
Where  Rolfe  beside  his  hearthstone  fell, 
Still  show  the  door  of  wasting  oak, 
Through  which  the  fatal  death-shot  broke, 
And  point  the  curious  stranger  where 
De  Rouville's  corse  lay  grim  and  bare  ; 
Whose  hideous  head,  in  death  still  feared, 
Bore  not  a  trace  of  hair  or  beard ; 
And  still,  within  the  churchyard  ground, 
Heaves  darkly  up  the  ancient  mound, 
Whose  grass-grown  surface  overlies 
The  victims  of  that  sacrifice. 


THE  NORSEMEN  37 

THE  NORSEMEN. 

In  the  early  part  of  the  present  century,  a  fragment  of  a  statue, 
rudely  chiselled  from  dark  gray  stone,  was  found  in  the  town  of 
Bradford,  on  the  Merrimac.  Its  origin  must  be  left  entirely  to 
conjecture.  The  fact  that  the  ancient  Northmen  visited  the  north- 
east coast  of  North  America  and  probahly  New  England,  some  cen- 
turies before  the  discovery  of  the  western  world  by  Columbus,  is 
now  very  generally  admitted. 

GIFT  from  the  cold  and  silent  Past ! 

A  relic  to  the  present  cast, 

Left  on  the  ever-changing  strand 

Of  shifting  and  unstable  sand, 

Which  wastes  beneath  the  steady  chime 

And  beating  of  the  waves  of  Time  ! 

Who  from  its  bed  of  primal  rock 

First  wrenched  thy  dark,  unshapely  block  ? 

Whose  hand,  of  curious  skill  untaught, 

Thy  rude  and  savage  outline  wrought  ? 

The  waters  of  my  native  stream 

Are  glancing  in  the  sun's  warm  beam ; 

From  sail-urged  keel  and  flashing  oar 

The  circles  widen  to  its  shore  ; 

And  cultured  field  and  peopled  town 

Slope  to  its  willowed  margin  down. 

Yet,  while  this  morning  breeze  is  bringing 

The  home-life  sound  of  school-bells  ringing, 

And  rolling  wheel,  and  rapid  jar 

Of  the  fire-winged  and  steedless  car, 

And  voices  from  the  wayside  near 

Come  quick  and  blended  on  my  ear,  — 

A  spell  is  in  this  old  gray  stone, 

My  thoughts  are  with  the  Past  alone ! 


262525 


38    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

A  change  !  —  The  steepled  town  no  more 

Stretches  along  the  sail-thronged  shore  ; 

Like  palace-domes  in  sunset's  cloud, 

Fade  sun-gilt  spire  and  mansion  proud : 

Spectrally  rising  where  they  stood, 

I  see  the  old,  primeval  wood ; 

Dark,  shadow-like,  on  either  hand 

I  see  its  solemn  waste  expand ; 

It  climbs  the  green  and  cultured  hill, 

It  arches  o'er  the  valley's  rill, 

And  leans  from  cliff  and  crag  to  throw 

Its  wild  arms  o'er  the  stream  below. 

Unchanged,  alone,  the  same  bright  river 

Flows  on,  as  it  will  flow  forever  ! 

I  listen,  and  I  hear  the  low 

Soft  ripple  where  its  waters  go ; 

I  hear  behind  the  panther's  cry, 

The  wild-bird's  scream  goes  thrilling  by, 

And  shyly  on  the  river's  brink 

The  deer  is  stooping  down  to  drink. 

But  hark  !  —  from  wood  and  rock  flung  back, 
What  sound  comes  up  the  Merrimac  ? 
What  sea-worn  barks  are  those  which  throw 
The  light  spray  from  each  rushing  prow  ? 
Have  they  not  in  the  North  Sea's  blast 
Bowed  to  the  waves  the  straining  mast  ? 
Their  frozen  sails  the  low,  pale  sun 
Of  Thule's  night  has  shone  upon  ; 
Flapped  by  the  sea-wind's  gusty  sweep 
Round  icy  drift,  and  headland  steep. 
Wild  Jutland's  wives  and  Lochlin's  daughters 
Have  watched  them  fading  o'er  the  waters, 


The  Norsemen 


THE  NORSEMEN  39 

Lessening  through  driving  mist  and  spray, 
Like  white-winged  sea-birds  on  their  way ! 

Onward  they  glide,  —  and  now  I  view 
Their  iron-armed  and  stalwart  crew ; 
Joy  glistens  in  each  wild  blue  eye, 
Turned  to  green  earth  and  summer  sky. 
Each  broad,  seamed  breast  has  cast  aside 
Its  cumbering  vest  of  shaggy  hide  ; 
Bared  to  the  sun  and  soft  warm  air, 
Streams  back  the  Norsemen's  yellow  hair. 
I  see  the  gleam  of  axe  and  spear, 
The  sound  of  smitten  shields  I  hear, 
Keeping  a  harsh  and  fitting  time 
To  Saga's  chant,  and  Runic  rhyme ; 
Such  lays  as  Zetland's  Scald  has  sung, 
His  gray  and  naked  isles  among  ; 
Or  muttered  low  at  midnight  hour 
Round  Odin's  mossy  stone  of  power. 
The  wolf  beneath  the  Arctic  moon 
Has  answered  to  that  startling  rune ; 
The  Gael  has  heard  its  stormy  swell, 
The  light  Frank  knows  its  summons  well ; 
lona's  sable-stoled  Culdee 
Has  heard  it  sounding  o'er  the  sea, 
And  swept,  with  hoary  beard  and  hair, 
His  altar's  foot  in  trembling  prayer  ! 

'T  is  past,  —  the  'wildering  vision  dies 
In  darkness  on  my  dreaming  eyes ! 
The  forest  vanishes  in  air, 
Hill-slope  and  vale  lie  starkly  bare ; 
I  hear  the  common  tread  of  men, 
And  hum  of  work-day  life  again ; 


40    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

The  mystic  relic  seems  alone 
A  broken  mass  of  common  stone  ; 
And  if  it  be  the  chiselled  limb 
Of  Berserker  or  idol  grim, 
A  fragment  of  Valhalla's  Thor, 
The  stormy  Viking's  god  of  War, 
Or  Praga  of  the  Kunic  lay, 
Or  love-awakening  Siona, 
I  know  not,  —  for  no  graven  line, 
Nor  Druid  mark,  nor  Runic  sign, 
Is  left  me  here,  by  which  to  trace 
Its  name,  or  origin,  or  place. 
Yet,  for  this  vision  of  the  Past, 
This  glance  upon  its  darkness  cast, 
My  spirit  bows  in  gratitude 
Before  the  Giver  of  all  good, 
Who  fashioned  so  the  human  mind, 
That,  from  the  waste  of  Time  behind, 
A  simple  stone,  or  mound  of  earth, 
Can  summon  the  departed  forth; 
Quicken  the  Past  to  life  again, 
The  Present  lose  in  what  hath  been, 
And  in  their  primal  freshness  show 
The  buried  forms  of  long  ago. 
As  if  a  portion  of  that  Thought 
By  which  the  Eternal  will  is  wrought, 
Whose  impulse  fills  anew  with  breath 
The  frozen  solitude  of  Death, 
To  mortal  mind  were  sometimes  lent, 
To  mortal  musings  sometimes  sent, 
To  whisper  —  even  when  it  seems 
But  Memory's  fantasy  of  dreams  — 
Through  the  mind's  waste  of  woe  and  sin, 
Of  an  immortal  origin ! 
1841. 


FUNERAL    TREE   OF  THE   SOKOKIS       41 


FUNERAL  TREE  OF  THE  SOKOKIS. 

Polan,  chief  of  the  Sokokis  Indians  of  the  country  between 
Agamenticus  and  Casco  Bay,  was  killed  at  Windham  on  Sebago 
Lake  in  the  spring  of  1756.  After  the  whites  had  retired,  the 
surviving  Indians  "  swayed  "  or  bent  down  a  young  tree  until  its 
roots  were  upturned,  placed  the  body  of  their  chief  beneath  it, 
and  then  released  the  tree,  which,  in  springing  back  to  its  old 
position,  covered  the  grave.  The  Sokokis  were  early  converts  to 
the  Catholic  faith.  Most  of  them,  prior  to  the  year  1756,  had 
removed  to  the  French  settlements  on  the  St.  Francois. 

AROUND  Sebago's  lonely  lake 
There  lingers  not  a  breeze  to  break 
The  mirror  which  its  waters  make. 


The  solemn  pines  along  its  shore, 

The  firs  which  hang  its  gray  rocks  o'er, 

Are  painted  on  its  glassy  floor. 

The  sun  looks  o'er,  with  hazy  eye, 
The  snowy  mountain-tops  which  lie 
Piled  coldly  up  against  the  sky. 

Dazzling  and  white !  save  where  the  bleak, 
Wild  winds  have  bared  some  splintering  peak, 
Or  snow-slide  left  its  dusky  streak. 

Yet  green  are  Saco's  banks  below, 
And  belts  of  spruce  and  cedar  show, 
Dark  fringing  round  those  cones  of  snow. 

The  earth  hath  felt  the  breath  of  spring, 
Though  yet  on  her  deliverer's  wing 
The  lingering  frosts  of  winter  cling. 


42    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

Fresh  grasses  fringe  the  meadow-brooks, 
And  mildly  from  its  sunny  nooks 
The  blue  eye  of  the  violet  looks. 

And  odors  from  the  springing  grass, 
The  sweet  birch  and  the  sassafras, 
Upon  the  scarce-felt  breezes  pass. 

Her  tokens  of  renewing  care 
Hath  Nature  scattered  everywhere, 
In  bud  and  flower,  and  warmer  air. 

But  in  their  hour  of  bitterness, 
What  reck  the  broken  Sokokis, 
Beside  their  slaughtered  chief,  of  this  ? 

The  turf's  red  stain  is  yet  undried, 
Scarce  have  the  death-shot  echoes  died 
Along  Sebago's  wooded  side ; 

And  silent  now  the  hunters  stand, 
Grouped  darkly,  where  a  swell  of  land 
Slopes  upward  from  the  lake's  white  sand. 

Fire  and  the  axe  have  swept  it  bare, 
Save  one  lone  beech,  unclosing  there 
Its  light  leaves  in  the  vernal  air. 

With  grave,  cold  looks,  all  sternly  mute, 
They  break  the  damp  turf  at  its  foot, 
And  bare  its  coiled  and  twisted  root. 


FUNERAL    TREE   OF  THE  SOKOKIS       43 

They  heave  the  stubborn  trunk  aside, 
The  firm  roots  from  the  earth  divide,  — 
The  rent  beneath  yawns  dark  and  wide. 

And  there  the  fallen  chief  is  laid, 
In  tasselled  garb  of  skins  arrayed, 
And  girded  with  his  wampum-braid. 

The  silver  cross  he  loved  is  pressed 
Beneath  the  heavy  arms,  which  rest 
Upon  his  scarred  and  naked  breast. 

'T  is  done  :  the  roots  are  backward  sent, 
The  beechen-tree  stands  up  unbent, 
The  Indian's  fitting  monument ! 

When  of  that  sleeper's  broken  race 
Their  green  and  pleasant  dwelling-place, 
Which  knew  them  once,  retains  no  trace  ; 

Oh,  long  may  sunset's  light  be  shed 
As  now  upon  that  beech's  head, 
A  green  memorial  of  the  dead ! 

There  shall  his  fitting  requiem  be, 

In  northern  winds,  that,  cold  and  free, 

Howl  nightly  in  that  funeral  tree. 

To  their  wild  wail  the  waves  which  break 
Forever  round  that  lonely  lake 
A  solemn  undertone  shall  make  1 


44  NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

And  who  shall  deem  the  spot  unblest, 
Where  Nature's  younger  children  rest, 
Lulled  on  their  sorrowing  mother's  breast  ? 

Deem  ye  that  mother  loveth  less 
These  bronzed  forms  of  the  wilderness 
She  foldeth  in  her  long  caress  ? 

As  sweet  o'er  them  her  wild-flowers  blow, 
As  if  with  fairer  hair  and  brow 
The  blue-eyed  Saxon  slept  below. 

What  though  the  places  of  their  rest 
No  priestly  knee  hath  ever  pressed,  — 
No  funeral  rite  nor  prayer  hath  blessed  ? 

What  though  the  bigot's  ban  be  there, 
And  thoughts  of  wailing  and  despair, 
And  cursing  in  the  place  of  prayer ! 

Yet  Heaven  hath  angels  watching  round 
The  Indian's  lowliest  forest-mound,  — 
And  they  have  made  it  holy  ground. 

There  ceases  man's  frail  judgment ;  all 
His  powerless  bolts  of  cursing  fall 
Unheeded  on  that  grassy  pall. 

O  peeled  and  hunted  and  reviled, 
Sleep  on,  dark  tenant  of  the  wild  ! 
Great  Nature  owns  her  simple  child ! 


ST.  JOHN  45 

And  Nature's  God,  to  whom  alone 
The  secret  of  the  heart  is  known,  — 
The  hidden  language  traced  thereon ; 

Who  from  its  many  cumberings 

Of  form  and  creed,  and  outward  things, 

To  light  the  naked  spirit  brings ; 

Not  with  our  partial  eye  shall  scan, 
Not  with  our  pride  and  scorn  shall  ban, 
The  spirit  of  our  brother  man  1 

1841. 


ST.  JOHN. 

The  fierce  rivalry  between  Charles  de  La  Tour,  a  Protestant, 
and  D'Aulnay  Charnasy,  a  Catholic,  for  the  possession  of  Aca- 
dia,  forms  one  of  the  most  romantic  passages  in  the  history  of  the 
New  World.  La  Tour  received  aid  in  several  instances  from  the 
Puritan  colony  of  Massachusetts.  During  one  of  his  voyages  for 
the  purpose  of  obtaining  arms  and  provisions  for  his  establish- 
ment at  St.  John,  his  castle  was  attacked  by  D'Aulnay,  and  suc- 
cessfully defended  by  its  high-spirited  mistress.  A  second  at- 
tack however  followed  in  the  fourth  month,  1647,  when  D'Auhiay 
was  successful,  and  the  garrison  was  put  to  the  sword.  Lady  La 
Tour  languished  a  few  days  in  the  hands  of  her  enemy,  and  then 
died  of  grief. 

"  To  the  winds  give  our  banner  ! 

Bear  homeward  again  !  " 
Cried  the  Lord  of  Acadia, 

Cried  Charles  of  Estienne  ; 
From  the  prow  of  his  shallop 

He  gazed,  as  the  sun, 
From  its  bed  in  the  ocean, 

Streamed  up  the  St.  John. 


46    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

O'er  the  blue  western  waters 

That  shallop  had  passed, 
Where  the  mists  of  Penobscot 

Clung  damp  on  her  mast. 
St.  Saviour  had  looked 

On  the  heretic  sail, 
As  the  songs  of  the  Huguenot 

Rose  on  the  gale. 

The  pale,  ghostly  fathers 

Remembered  her  well, 
And  had  cursed  her  while  passing, 

With  taper  and  bell ; 
But  the  men  of  Monhegan, 

Of  Papists  abhorred, 
Had  welcomed  and  feasted 

The  heretic  Lord. 

They  had  loaded  his  shallop 

With  dun-fish  and  ball, 
With  stores  for  his  larder, 

And  steel  for  his  wall. 
Pemaquid,  from  her  bastions 

And  turrets  of  stone, 
Had  welcomed  his  coming 

With  banner  and  gun. 

And  the  prayers  of  the  elders 

Had  followed  his  way, 
As  homeward  he  glided, 

Down  Pentecost  Bay. 
Oh,  well  sped  La  Tour ! 

For,  in  peril  and  pain, 


ST.  JOHN  47 

His  lady  kept  watch, 
For  his  coming  again. 

O'er  the  Isle  of  the  Pheasant 

The  morning  sun  shone, 
On  the  plane-trees  which  shaded 

The  shores  of  St.  John. 
"  Now,  why  from  yon  battlements 

Speaks  not  my  love ! 
Why  waves  there  no  banner 

My  fortress  above?" 

Dark  and  wild,  from  his  deck 

St.  Estienne  gazed  about, 
On  fire-wasted  dwellings, 

And  silent  redoubt ; 
From  the  low,  shattered  walls 

Which  the  flame  had  o'errun, 
There  floated  no  banner, 

There  thundered  no  gun  ! 

But  beneath  the  low  arch 

Of  its  doorway  there  stood 
A  pale  priest  of  Rome, 

In  his  cloak  and  his  hood. 
With  the  bound  of  a  lion, 

La  Tour  sprang  to  land, 
On  the  throat  of  the  Papist 

He  fastened  his  hand. 

'5  Speak,  son  of  the  Woman 

Of  scarlet  and  sin ! 
What  wolf  has  been  prowling 
My  castle  within?  " 


48    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

From  the  grasp  of  the  soldier 

The  Jesuit  broke, 
Half  in  scorn,  half  in  sorrow, 

He  smiled  as  he  spoke : 

"  No  wolf,  Lord  of  Estienne, 

Has  ravaged  thy  hall, 
But  thy  red-handed  rival, 

With  fire,  steel,  and  ball ! 
On  an  errand  of  mercy 

I  hitherward  came, 
While  the  walls  of  thy  castle 

Yet  spouted  with  flame. 

"  Pentagoet's  dark  vessels 

Were  moored  in  the  bay, 
Grim  sea-lions,  roaring 

Aloud  for  their  prey." 
"  But  what  of  my  lady  ?  " 

Cried  Charles  of  Estienne. 
"  On  the  shot-crumbled  turret 

Thy  lady  was  seen  : 

"  Half-veiled  in  the  smoke-cloud, 

Her  hand  grasped  thy  pennon, 
While  her  dark  tresses  swayed 

In  the  hot  breath  of  cannon  ! 
But  woe  to  the  heretic, 

Evermore  woe ! 
When  the  son  of  the  church 

And  the  cross  is  his  foe  ! 

"In the  track  of  the  shell, 
In  the  path  of  the  ball, 


ST.   JOHN  49 

Pentagoet  swept  over 

The  breach  of  the  wall ! 
Steel  to  steel,  gun  to  gun, 

One  moment, — and  then 
Alone  stood  the  victor, 

Alone  with  his  men  ! 

"  Of  its  sturdy  defenders, 

Thy  lady  alone 
Saw  the  cross-blazoned  banner 

Float  over  St.  John." 
"  Let  the  dastard  look  to  it !  " 

Cried  fiery  Estienne, 
"  Were  D'Aulnay  King  Louis, 

I  'd  free  her  again !  " 

«« Alas  for  thy  lady  ! 

No  service  from  thee 
Is  needed  by  her 

Whom  the  Lord  hath  set  free ; 
Nine  days,  in  stern  silence, 

Her  thraldom  she  bore, 
But  the  tenth  morning  came, 

And  Death  opened  her  door  !  " 

As  if  suddenly  smitten 

La  Tour  staggered  back  ; 
His  hand  grasped  his  sword-hilt, 

His  forehead  grew  black. 
He  sprang  on  the  deck 

Of  his  shallop  again. 
"  We  cruise  now  for  vengeance ! 

Give  way  !  "  cried  Estienne. 


50    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

"  Massachusetts  shall  hear 

Of  the  Huguenot's  wrong, 
And  from  island  and  creekside 

Her  fishers  shall  throng ! 
Pentagoet  shall  rue 

What  his  Papists  have  done, 
When  his  palisades  echo 

The  Puritan's  gun !  " 

Oh,  the  loveliest  of  heavens 

Hung  tenderly  o'er  him, 
There  were  waves  in  the  sunshine, 

And  green  isles  before  him  : 
But  a  pale  hand  was  beckoning 

The  Huguenot  on ; 
And  in  blackness  and  ashes 

Behind  was  St.  John ! 
1841. 


THE  CYPRESS-TREE  OF  CEYLON. 

Ibn  Batuta,  the  celebrated  Mussulman  traveller  of  the  four- 
teenth century,  speaks  of  a  cypress-tree  in  Ceylon,  universally 
held  sacred  by  the  natives,  the  leaves  of  which  were  said  to  fall 
only  at  certain  intervals,  and  he  who  had  the  happiness  to  find 
and  eat  one  of  them  was  restored,  at  once,  to  youth  and  vigor. 
The  traveller  saw  several  venerable  Jogees,  or  saints,  sitting  silent 
and  motionless  under  the  tree,  patiently  awaiting  the  falling  of  a 
leaf. 

THEY  sat  in  silent  watchfulness 

The  sacred  cypress-tree  about, 
And,  from  beneath  old  wrinkled  brows, 

Their  failing  eyes  looked  out. 


THE   CYPRESS-TREE   OF  CEYLON        51 

Gray  Age  and  Sickness  waiting  there 

Through  weary  night  and  lingering  day,  — 

Grim  as  the  idols  at  their  side, 
And  motionless  as  they. 

Unheeded  in  the  boughs  above 

The  song  of  Ceylon's  birds  was  sweet; 

Unseen  of  them  the  island  flowers 
Bloomed  brightly  at  their  feet. 

O'er  them  the  tropic  night-storm  swept, 
The  thunder  crashed  on  rock  and  hill ; 

The  cloud-fire  on  their  eyeballs  blazed, 
Yet  there  they  waited  still ! 

"What  was  the  world  without  to  them  ? 

The  Moslem's  sunset-call,  the  dance 
Of  Ceylon's  maids,  the  passing  gleam 

Of  battle-flag  and  lance  ? 

They  waited  for  that  falling  leaf 

Of  which  the  wandering  Jogees  sing  : 

Which  lends  once  more  to  wintry  age 
The  greenness  of  its  spring. 

Oh,  if  these  poor  and  blinded  ones 

In  trustful  patience  wait  to  feel 
O'er  torpid  pulse  and  failing  limb 

A  youthful  freshness  steal ; 

Shall  we,  who  sit  beneath  that  Tree 
Whose  healing  leaves  of  life  are  shed, 

In  answer  to  the  breath  of  prayer, 
Upon  the  waiting  head  — 


52    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

Not  to  restore  our  failing  forms, 

And  build  the  spirit's  broken  shrine, 

But  on  the  fainting-  soul  to  shed 
A  light  and  life  divine  — 

Shall  we  grow  weary  in  our  watch, 

And  murmur  at  the  long  delay? 
Impatient  of  our  Father's  time 

And  His  appointed  way? 

Or  shall  the  stir  of  outward  things 
Allure  and  claim  the  Christian's  eye, 

When  on  the  heathen  watcher's  ear 
Their  powerless  murmurs  die  ? 

Alas !  a  deeper  test  of  faith 

Than  prison  cell  or  martyr's  stake, 

The  self-abasing  watchfulness 
Of  silent  prayer  may  make. 

We  gird  us  bravely  to  rebuke 

Our  erring  brother  in  the  wrong,  — 

And  in  the  ear  of  Pride  and  Power 
Our  warning  voice  is  strong. 

Easier  to  smite  with  Peter's  sword 

Than  "  watch  one  hour  "  in  humbling  prayer. 
Life's  "  great  things,"  like  the  Syrian  lord, 

Our  hearts  can  do  and  dare. 

But  oh!  we  shrink  from  Jordan's  side, 
From  waters  which  alone  can  save  ; 


THE  EXILES  53 

And  murmur  for  Abana's  banks 
And  Pharpar's  brighter  wave. 

O  Thou,  who  in  the  garden's  shade 
Didst  wake  Thy  weary  ones  again, 

Who  slumbered  at  that  fearful  hour 
Forgetful  of  Thy  pain ; 

Bend  o'er  us  now,  as  over  them, 

And  set  our  sleep-bound  spirits  free, 

Nor  leave  us  slumbering  in  the  watch 
Our  souls  should  keep  with  Thee  ! 
1841. 


THE  EXILES. 

The  incidents  upon  which  the  following  ballad  has  its  founda- 
tion occurred  about  the  year  1660.  Thomas  Macy  was  one  of 
the  first,  if  not  the  first  white  settler  of  Nantucket.  The  career 
of  Macy  is  briefly  but  carefully  outlined  in  James  S.  Pike's  The 
New  Puritan. 

THE  goodman  sat  beside  his  door 

One  sultry  afternoon, 
With  his  young  wife  singing  at  his  side 

An  old  and  goodly  tune. 

A  glimmer  of  heat  was  in  the  air,  — 
The  dark  green  woods  were  still ; 

And  the  skirts  of  a  heavy  thunder-cloud 
Hung  over  the  western  hill. 

Black,  thick,  and  vast  arose  that  cloud 
Above  the  wilderness, 


54    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

As  some  dark  world  from  upper  air 
Were  stooping  over  this. 

At  times  the  solemn  thunder  pealed, 

And  all  was  still  again, 
Save  a  low  murmur  in  the  air 

Of  coming  wind  and  rain. 

Just  as  the  first  big  rain-drop  fell, 

A  weary  stranger  came, 
And  stood  before  the  farmer's  door, 

With  travel  soiled  and  lame. 

Sad  seemed  he,  yet  sustaining  hope 

Was  in  his  quiet  glance, 
And  peace,  like  autumn's  moonlight,  clothed 

His  tranquil  countenance,  — 

A  look,  like  that  his  Master  wore 

In  Pilate's  council-hall : 
It  told  of  wrongs,  but  of  a  love 

Meekly  forgiving  all. 

"  Friend !  wilt  thou  give  me  shelter  here  ?  " 

The  stranger  meekly  said ; 
And,  leaning  on  his  oaken  staff, 
The  goodman's  features  read. 

"  My  life  is  hunted,  —  evil  men 
Are  following  in  my  track  ; 
The  traces  of  the  torturer's  whip 
Are  on  my  aged  back  ; 


THE  EXILES  55 

And  much,  I  fear,  't  will  peril  thee 

Within  thy  doors  to  take 
A  hunted  seeker  of  the  Truth, 

Oppressed  for  conscience'  sake." 

Oh,  kindly  spoke  the  goodman's  wife, 

"  Come  in,  old  man  !  "  quoth  she, 
•  We  will  not  leave  thee  to  the  storm, 
Whoever  thou  inayst  be." 

Then  came  the  aged  wanderer  in, 

And  silent  sat  him  down  ; 
While  all  within  grew  dark  as  night 

Beneath  the  storm-cloud's  frown. 

But  while  the  sudden  lightning's  blaze 

Filled  every  cottage  nook, 
And  with  the  jarring  thunder-roll 

The  loosened  casements  shook, 

A  heavy  tramp  of  horses'  feet 

Came  sounding  up  the  lane, 
And  half  a  score  of  horse,  or  more, 

Came  plunging  through  the  rain. 

'  Now,  Goodman  Macy,  ope  thy  door,  — 

We  would  not  be  house-breakers  ; 
A  rueful  deed  thou  'st  done  this  day, 
In  harboring  banished  Quakers." 

Out  looked  the  cautious  goodman  then, 

With  much  of  fear  and  awe, 
For  there,  with  broad  wig  drenched  with  rain, 

The  parish  priest  he  saw. 


56    NARRATIVE  AND  .LEGENDARY  POEMS 

"  Open  thy  door,  thou  wicked  man, 

And  let  thy  pastor  in, 
And  give  God  thanks,  if  forty  stripes 
Repay  thy  deadly  sin." 

41  What  seek  ye  ?  "  quoth  the  goodman; 

"  The  stranger  is  my  guest ; 
He  is  worn  with  toil  and  grievous  wrong,  — 
Pray  let  the  old  man  rest." 

"  Now,  out  upon  thee,  canting  knave !  " 
And  strong  hands  shook  the  door. 

"  Believe  me,  Macy,"  quoth  the  priest, 
"  Thou  'It  rue  thy  conduct  sore." 

Then  kindled  Macy's  eye  of  fire : 
"  No  priest  who  walks  the  earth, 

Shall  pluck  away  the  stranger-guest 
Made  welcome  to  my  hearth." 

Down  from  his  cottage  wall  he  caught 

The  matchlock,  hotly  tried 
At  Preston-pans  and  Marston-moor, 

By  fiery  Ireton's  side  ; 

Where  Puritan,  and  Cavalier, 

With  shout  and  psalm  contended  ; 

And  Rupert's  oath,  and  Cromwell's  prayer, 
With  battle-thunder  blended. 

Up  rose  the  ancient  stranger  then  : 

"  My  spirit  is  not  free 
To  bring  the  wrath  and  violence 

Of  evil  men  on  thee ; 


THE  EXILES  57 

"  And  for  thyself,  I  pray  forbear, 

Bethink  thee  of  thy  Lord, 
Who  healed  again  the  smitten  ear, 
And  sheathed  His  follower's  sword. 

"  I  go,  as  to  the  slaughter  led. 

Friends  of  the  poor,  farewell !  " 
Beneath  his  hand  the  oaken  door 
Back  on  its  hinges  fell. 

"  Come  forth,  old  graybeard,  yea  and  nay," 

The  reckless  scoffers  cried, 
As  to  a  horseman's  saddle-bow 
The  old  man's  arms  were  tied. 

And  of  his  bondage  hard  and  long 

In  Boston's  crowded  jail, 
Where  suffering  woman's  prayer  was  heard, 

With  sickening  childhood's  wail, 

It  suits  not  with  our  tale  to  tell ; 

Those  scenes  have  passed  away  ; 
Let  the  dim  shadows  of  the  past 

Brood  o'er  that  evil  day. 

"  Ho,  sheriff  !  "  quoth  the  ardent  priest, 

"  Take  Goodman  Macy  too  ; 
The  sin  of  this  day's  heresy 
His  back  or  purse  shall  rue." 

"  Now,,  goodwife,  haste  thee  !  "  Macy  cried. 

She  caught  his  manly  arm  ; 
Behind,  the  parson  urged  pursuit, 
With  outcry  and  alarm. 


58    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

Ho !  speed  the  Macys,  neck  or  naught,  — 

The  river-course  was  near  ; 
The  plashing  on  its  pebbled  shore 

Was  music  to  their  ear. 

A  gray  rock,  tasselled  o'er  with  birch, 

Above  the  waters  hung, 
And  at  its  base,  with  every  wave, 

A  small  light  wherry  swung. 

A  leap  —  they  gain  the  boat  —  and  there 

The  goodman  wields  his  oar  ; 
"  111  luck  betide  them  all,"  he  cried, 
"  The  laggards  on  the  shore." 

Down  through  the  crashing  underwood, 

The  burly  sheriff  came :  — 
"  Stand,  Goodman  Macy,  yield  thyself ; 
Yield  in  the  King's  own  name." 

"  Now  out  upon  thy  hangman's  face !  " 

Bold  Macy  answered  then,  — 
"  Whip  women,  on  the  village  green, 

But  meddle  not  with  men." 

The  priest  came  panting  to  the  shore, 
His  grave  cocked  hat  was  gone  ; 

Behind  him,  like  some  owl's  nest,  hung 
His  wig  upon  a  thorn. 

"  Come  back,  —  come  back ! "  the  parson  cried, 

"The  church's  curse  beware." 
"  Curse,  an'  thou  wilt,"  said  Macy,  "  but 
Thy  blessing  prithee  spare." 


THE  EXILES  59 

"Vile  scoffer!  "  cried  the  baffled  priest, 

"  Thou  'It  yet  the  gallows  see." 
"  Who  's  born  to  be  hanged  will  not  be  drowned," 

Quoth  Macy,  merrily ; 

"•  And  so,  sir  sheriff  and  priest,  good-by  !  " 

He  bent  him  to  his  oar, 
And  the  small  boat  glided  quietly 
From  the  twain  upon  the  shore. 

Now  in  the  west,  the  heavy  clouds 

Scattered  and  fell  asunder, 
While  feebler  came  the  rush  of  rain, 

And  fainter  growled  the  thunder. 

And  through  the  broken  clouds,  the  sun 

Looked  out  serene  and  warm, 
Painting  its  holy  symbol-light 

Upon  the  passing  storm. 

Oh,  beautiful !  that  rainbow  span, 
O'er  dim  Crane-neck  was  bended  ; 

One  bright  foot  touched  the  eastern  hills, 
And  one  with  ocean  blended. 

By  green  Pentucket's  southern  slope 

The  small  boat  glided  fast ; 
The  watchers  of  the  Block-house  saw 

The  strangers  as  they  passed. 

That  night  a  stalwart  garrison 

Sat  shaking  in  their  shoes, 
To  hear  the  dip  of  Indian  oars, 

The  glide  of  birch  canoes. 


60    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

The  fisher-wives  of  Salisbury  — 

The  men  were  all  away  — 
Looked  out  to  see  the  stranger  oar 

Upon  their  waters  play. 

Deer-Island's  rocks  and  fir-trees  threw 

Their  sunset- shadows  o'er  them, 
And  Newbury's  spire  and  weathercock 

Peered  o'er  the  pines  before  them. 

Around  the  Black  Rocks,  on  their  left, 

The  marsh  lay  broad  and  green  ; 
And  on  their  right,  with  dwarf  shrubs  crowned, 

Plum  Island's  hills  were  seen. 

With  skilful  hand  and  wary  eye 

The  harbor-bar  was  crossed  ; 
A  plaything  of  the  restless  wave, 

The  boat  on  ocean  tossed. 

The  glory  of  the  sunset  heaven 

On  land  and  water  lay ; 
On  the  steep  hills  of  Agawam, 

On  cape,  and  bluff,  and  bay. 

They  passed  the  gray  rocks  of  Cape  Ann, 

And  Gloucester's  harbor-bar ; 
The  watch-fire  of  the  garrison 

Shone  like  a  setting  star. 

How  brightly  broke  the  morning 

On  Massachusetts  Bay ! 
Blue  wave,  and  bright  green  island, 

Rejoicing  in  the  day. 


THE  EXILES  61 

On  passed  the  bark  in  safety 

Round  isle  and  headland  steep  ; 
No  tempest  broke  above  them, 
•  No  fog-cloud  veiled  the  deep. 

Far  round  the  bleak  and  stormy  Cape 

The  venturous  Macy  passed, 
And  on  Nantucket's  naked  isle 

Drew  up  his  boat  at  last. 

And  how,  in  log-built  cabin, 

They  braved  the  rough  sea- weather  ; 
And  there,  in  peace  and  quietness, 

Went  down  life's  vale  together ; 

How  others  drew  around  them, 

And  how  their  fishing  sped, 
Until  to  every  wind  of  heaven 

Nantucket's  sails  were  spread ; 

How  pale  Want  alternated 

With  Plenty's  golden  smile ; 
Behold,  is  it  not  written 

In  the  annals  of  the  isle  ? 

And  yet  that  isle  remaineth 

A  refuge  of  the  free, 
As  when  true-hearted  Macy 

Beheld  it  from  the  sea. 

Free  as  the  winds  that  winnow 

Her  shrubless  hills  of  sand, 
Free  as  the  waves  that  batter 

Along  her  yielding  land. 


62    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

Than  hers,  at  duty's  summons, 

No  loftier  spirit  stirs, 
Nor  falls  o'er  human  suffering 

A  readier  tear  then  hers. 

God  bless  the  sea-beat  island ! 

And  grant  forevermore, 
That  charity  and  freedom  dwell 

As  now  upon  her  shore  ! 
1841. 


THE  KNIGHT  OF  ST.  JOHN. 

ERE  down  yon  blue  Carpathian  hills 

The  sun  shall  sink  again, 
Farewell  to  life  and  all  its  ills, 

Farewell  to  cell  and  chain ! 

These  prison  shades  are  dark  and  cold, 

But,  darker  far  than  they, 
The  shadow  of  a  sorrow  old 

Is  on  my  heart  alway. 

For  since  the  day  when  Wark worth  wood 

Closed  o'er  my  steed,  and  I, 
An  alien  from  my  name  and  blood, 

A  weed  cast  out  to  die,  — 

When,  looking  back  in  sunset  light, 

I  saw  her  turret  gleam, 
And  from  its  casement,  far  and  white, 

Her  sign  of  farewell  stream, 


THE  KNIGHT  OF  ST.  JOHN  68 

Like  cue  who,  from  some  desert  shore, 

Doth  home's  green  isles  descry, 
And,  vainly  longing,  gazes  o'er 

The  waste  of  wave  and  sky ; 

So  from  the  desert  of  my  fate 

I  gaze  across  the  past ; 
Forever  on  life's  dial-plate 

The  shade  is  backward  cast ! 

I  've  wandered  wide  from  shore  to  shore, 

I  've  knelt  at  many  a  shrine  ; 
And  bowed  me  to  the  rocky  floor 

Where  Bethlehem's  tapers  shine ; 

And  by  the  Holy  Sepulchre 

I  've  pledged  my  knightly  sword 

To  Christ,  His  blessed  Church,  and  her, 
The  Mother  of  our  Lord. 

Oh,  vain  the  vow,  and  vain  the  strife ! 

How  vain  do  all  things  seem ! 
My  soul  is  in  the  past,  and  life 

To-day  is  but  a  dream  ! 

In  vain  the  penance  strange  and  long, 

And  hard  for  flesh  to  bear  ; 
The  prayer,  the  fasting,  and  the  thong, 

And  sackcloth  shirt  of.  hair. 

The  eyes  of  memory  will  not  sleep,  — 

Its  ears  are  open  still ; 
And  vigils  with  the  past  they  keep 

Against  my  feeble  will. 


64    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

And  still  the  loves  and  joys  of  old 

Do  evermore  uprise ; 
I  see  the  flow  of  locks  of  gold, 

The  shine  of  loving  eyes  ! 

Ah  me !  upon  another's  breast 

Those  golden  locks  recline  ; 
I  see  upon  another  rest 

The  glance  that  once  was  mine. 

"  O  faithless  priest !    O  perjured  knight !  " 

I  hear  the  Master  cry  ; 
"  Shut  out  the  vision  from  thy  sight, 

Let  Earth  and  Nature  die. 

"  The  Church  of  God  is  now  thy  spouse, 

And  thou  the  bridegroom  art ; 
Then  let  the  burden  of  thy  vows 
Crush  down  thy  human  heart !  " 

w 

In  vain !     This  heart  its  grief  must  know, 

Till  life  itself  hath  ceased, 
And  falls  beneath  the  self-same  blow 

The  lover  and  the  priest ! 

O  pitying  Mother !  souls  of  light, 

And  saints  and  martyrs  old  ! 
Pray  for  a  weak  and  sinful  knight, 

A  suffering  man  uphold. 

Then  let  the  Paynim  work  his  will, 
And  death  unbind  my  chain, 


CASSANDRA   SOUTH  WICK  65 

Ere  down  yon  blue  Carpathian  hill 

The  sun  shall  fall  again. 
1843. 


CASSANDRA  SOUTHWICK. 

In  1658  two  young  persons,  son  and  daughter  of  Lawrence 
Southwick  of  Salem,  who  had  himself  been  imprisoned  and 
deprived  of  nearly  all  his  property  for  having  entertained  Qua- 
kers at  his  house,  were  fined  for  non-attendance  at  church.  They 
being  unable  to  pay  the  fine,  the  General  Court  issued  an  order 
empowering  "  the  Treasurer  of  the  County  to  sell  the  said  persons 
to  any  of  the  English  nation  of  Virginia  or  Barbadoes,  to  answer 
said  fines."  An  attempt  was  made  to  carry  this  order  into  exe- 
cution, but  no  shipmaster  was  found  willing  to  convey  them  to 
the  West  Indies. 

To  the  God  of  all  sure  mercies  let  my  blessing  rise 
to-day, 

From  the  scoffer  and  the  cruel  He  hath  plucked 
the  spoil  away ; 

Yea,  He  who  cooled  the  furnace  around  the  faith- 
ful three, 

And  tamed  the  Chaldean  lions,  hath  set  His  hand- 
maid free ! 

Last  night  I  saw  the  sunset  melt  through  my  prison 

bars, 
Last  night  across  my  damp  earth-floor  fell  the  pale 

gleam  of  stars ; 
In  the  coldness  and  the  darkness  all  through  the 

long  night-time, 
My  grated  casement  whitened  with  autumn's  early 

rime. 

VOL.   I.          5 


66    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

Alone,  in  that  dark  sorrow,  hour  after  hour  crept 

by; 
Star  after  star  looked  palely  in  and  sank  adown 

the  sky  ; 
No  sound  amid  night's  stillness,  save  that  which 

seemed  to  be 
The  dull  and  heavy  beating  of  the  pulses  of  the  sea ; 

All  night  I  sat  unsleeping,  for  I  knew  that  on  the 

morrow 
The  ruler  and  the  cruel  priest  would  mock  me  in  , 

my  sorrow, 
Dragged  to  their  place  of  market,  and  bargained 

for  and  sold, 
Like  a  lamb  before  the  shambles,  like  a  heifer 

from  the  fold ! 

Oh,  the   weakness  of   the   flesh  was  there,  —  the 

shrinking  and  the  shame  ; 
And  the  low  voice  of  the  Tempter  like  whispers  to 

me  came  : 
"Why   sit'st   thou    thus   forlornly,"    the    wicked 

murmur  said, 
"  Damp  walls  thy  bower  of  beauty,  cold  earth  thy 

maiden  bed  ? 

"  Where  be  the  smiling  faces,  and  voices  soft  and 

sweet, 
Seen  in  thy  father's  dwelling,  heard  in  the  pleasant 

street  ? 
Where  be  the  youths  whose  glances,  the  summer 

Sabbath  through, 
Turned  tenderly  and  timidly  unto  thy  father's  pew  ? 


CASSANDRA   SOUTH  WICK  67 

"  Why   sit'st   tliou    here,   Cassandra  ?  —  Bethink 

thee  with  what  mirth 
Thy  happy  schoolmates  gather  around  the  warm 

bright  hearth  ; 
How  the  crimson  shadows  tremble  on  foreheads 

white  and  fair, 
On  eyes  of  merry  girlhood,  half  hid  in  golden  hair. 

"Not  for  thee  the  hearth-fire  brightens,  not  for 
thee  kind  words  are  spoken, 

Not  for  thee  the  nuts  of  Wenham  woods  by  laugh- 
ing boys  are  broken ; 

No  first-fruits  of  the  orchard  within  thy  lap  are 
laid, 

For  thee  no  flowers  of  autumn  the  youthful  hun- 
ters braid. 

"  O  weak,   deluded   maiden  !  —  by  crazy   fancies 

led, 

With  wild  and  raving  railers  an  evil  path  to  tread ; 
To  leave  a  wholesome  worship,  and  teaching  pure 

and  sound, 
And  mate  with  maniac  women,  loose-haired  and 

sackcloth  bound,  — 

"Mad  scoffers   of   the  priesthood,  who  mock   at 

things  divine, 
Who  rail  against  the  pulpit,  and  holy  bread  and 

wine ; 
Sore  from  their  cart-tail  scourgings,  and  from  the 

pillory  lame, 
Rejoicing  in  their  wretchedness,  and  glorying  in 

their  shame. 


68    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

"  And  what  a  fate  awaits  thee  !  —  a  sadly  toiling 

slave, 
Dragging  the  slowly  lengthening  chain  of  bondage 

to  the  grave ! 
Think  of  thy  woman's  nature,  subdued  in  hopeless 

thrall, 
The  easy  prey  of  any,  the  scoff  and  scorn  of  all !  " 

Oh,  ever  as  the  Tempter  spoke,  and  feeble  Nature's 
fears 

Wrung  drop  by  drop  the  scalding  flow  of  unavail- 
ing tears, 

I  wrestled  down  the  evil  thoughts,  and  strove  in 
silent  prayer, 

To  feel,  O  Helper  of  the  weak!  that  Thou  indeed 
wert  there ! 

I  thought  of  Paul  and  Silas,  within  Philippi's  cell, 
And  how  from  Peter's  sleeping  limbs  the  prison 

shackles  fell, 
Till  I  seemed  to  hear  the  trailing  of  an  angel's 

robe  of  white, 
And  to  feel  a  blessed  presence  invisible  to  sight. 

Bless  the  Lord  for  all  his  mercies !  —  for  the  peace 
and  love  I  felt, 

Like  dew  of  Hermon's  holy  hill,  upon  my  spirit 
melt ; 

When  "Get  behind  me,  Satan!"  was  the  lan- 
guage of  my  heart, 

And  I  felt  the  Evil  Tempter  with  all  his  doubts 
depart. 


CASSANDRA    SOUTHW1CK  69 

Slow  broke  the  gray  cold  morning ;  again  the  sun- 
shine fell, 

Flecked  with  the  shade  of  bar  and  grate  within 
my  lonely  cell ; 

The  hoar-frost  melted  on  the  wall,  and  upward 
from  the  street 

Came  careless  laugh  and  idle  word,  and  tread  of 
passing  feet. 

At  length  the  heavy  bolts  fell  back,  my  door  was 

open  cast, 
And  slowly  at  the  sheriff's  side,  up  the  long  street 

I  passed ; 
I  heard  the  murmur  round  me,  and  felt,  but  dared 

not  see, 
How,  from   every  door  and  window,  the  people 

gazed  on  me. 

And  doubt  and  fear  fell  on  me,  shame  burned  upon 
my  cheek, 

Swam  earth  and  sky  around  me,  my  trembling 
limbs  grew  weak : 

"  0  Lord !  support  thy  handmaid ;  and  from  her 
soul  cast  out 

The  fear  of  man,  which  brings  a  snare,  the  weak- 
ness and  the  doubt." 

Then  the  dreary  shadows  scattered,  like  a  cloud  in 
morning's  breeze, 

And  a  low  deep  voice  within  me  seemed  whisper- 
ing words  like  these  : 


70  NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

"  Though  thy  earth  be  as  the  iron,  and  thy  heaven 

a  brazen  wall, 
Trust  still  His  loving-kindness  whose  power  is  over 

all." 

We  paused  at  length,  where  at  my  feet  the  sunlit 

waters  broke 
On  glaring  reach  of  shining  beach,  and  shingly 

wall  of  rock ; 
The  merchant-ships  lay  idly  there,  in  hard  clear 

lines  on  high, 
Tracing  with  rope  and  slender  spar  their  network 

on  the  sky. 

And   there    were   ancient   citizens,  cloak-wrapped 

and  grave  and  cold, 
And  grim  and  stout  sea-captains  with  faces  bronzed 

and  old, 
And  on  his  horse,  with  Rawson,  his  cruel  clerk  at 

hand, 
Sat  dark  and  haughty  Endicott,  the  ruler  of  the 

land. 

And  poisoning  with  his  evil  words  the  ruler's  ready 

ear, 
The  priest  leaned  o'er  his  saddle,  with  laugh  and 

scoff  and  jeer ; 
It  stirred  my  soul,  and  from  my  lips  the  seal  of 

silence  broke, 
As  if  through  woman's  weakness  a  warning  spirit 

spoke. 

I  cried,  "  The  Lord  rebuke  thee,  thou  smiter  of  the 
meek, 


CASSANDRA   SOUTH  WICK  71 

Thou  robber  of  the  righteous,  thou   trampler  of 

the  weak ! 
Go  light  the  dark,  cold  hearth-stones,  —  go  turn 

the  prison  lock 
Of  the  poor  hearts  thou  hast  hunted,  thou  wolf 

amid  the  flock !  " 

Dark  lowered  the  brows  of  Endicott,  and  with  a 

deeper  red 
O'er  Rawson's  wine-empurpled  cheek  the  flush  of 

anger  spread ; 
"Good   people,"   quoth    the  white-lipped    priest, 

"  heed  not  her  words  so  wild, 
Her  Master  speaks  within  her,  —  the  Devil  owns 

his  child  !  " 

But  gray  heads  shook,  and  young  brows  knit,  the 
while  the  sheriff  read 

That  law  the  wicked  rulers  against  the  poor  have 
made, 

Who  to  their  house  of  Rimmon  and  idol  priest- 
hood bring 

No  bended  knee  of  worship,  nor  gainful  offer- 
ing. 

Then  to  the  stout  sea-captains  the  sheriff,  turning, 

said,  — 
*'  Which   of  ye,   worthy   seamen,   will    take   this 

Quaker  maid  ? 
In  the  Isle  of  fair  Barbadoes,  or  on  Virginia's 

shore, 
You  may  hold  her  at  a  higher  price  than  Indian 

girl  or  Moor." 


72    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

Grim  and  silent   stood   the   captains ;  and  when 

again  he  cried, 
"  Speak  out,  my  worthy  seamen  !  "  —  no  voice,  no 

sign  replied ; 
But  I  felt  a  hard  hand  press  my  own,  and  kind 

words  met  my  ear,  — 
"  God  bless  thee,  and  preserve  thee,  my  gentle  girl 

and  dear !  " 

A  weight  seemed  lifted  from  my  heart,  a  pitying 

friend  was  nigh,  — 
I  felt  it  in  his  hard,  rough  hand,  and  saw  it  in  his 

eye; 
And  when  again  the  sheriff  spoke,  that  voice,  so 

kind  to  me, 
Growled  back  its  stormy  answer  like  the  roaring 

of  the  sea,  — 

"  Pile  my  ship  with  bars  of  silver,  pack  with  coins 

of  Spanish  gold, 
From  keel-piece  up  to  deck-plank,  the  roomage  of 

her  hold, 
By  the  living  God  who  made  me  !  —  I  would  sooner 

in  your  bay 
Sink  ship  and  crew  and  cargo,  than  bear  this  child 

away !  " 

"  Well  answered,  worthy  captain,  shame  on  their 
cruel  laws !  " 

Ran  through  the  crowd  in  murmurs  loud  the  peo- 
ple's just  applause. 


CASSANDRA   SOUTHWICK  73 

"  Like  the  herdsman  of  Tekoa,  in  Israel  of  old, 
Shall  we  see  the  poor  and  righteous  again  for  sil- 
ver sold?" 

I  looked  on  haughty  Endicott ;  with  weapon  half- 
way drawn, 

Swept  round  the  throng  his  lion  glare  of  bitter  hate 
and  scorn ; 

Fiercely  he  drew  his  bridle-rein,  and  turned  in 
silence  back, 

And  sneering  priest  and  baffled  clerk  rode  mur- 
muring in  his  track. 

Hard  after  them  the  sheriff  looked,  in  bitterness  of 

soul; 
Thrice   smote    his    staff    upon   the   ground,   and 

crushed  his  parchment  roll. 
"  Good  friends,"  he  said,  "  since  both  have  fled, 

the  ruler  and  the  priest, 
Judge  ye,  if  from  their  further  work  I  be  not  well 

released." 

Loud  was  the  cheer  which,  full  and  clear,  swept 

round  the  silent  bay, 
As,  with  kind  words  and  kinder  looks,  he  bade  me 

go  my  way ; 
For  He  who  turns  the  courses  of  the  streamlet  of 

the  glen, 
And   the   river   of   great  waters,  had  turned  the 

hearts  of  men. 

Oh,  at  that  hour  the  very  earth  seemed  changed 
beneath  my  eye, 


74   NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

A  holier  wonder  round  me  rose  the  blue  walls  of 

the  sky, 
A  lovelier  light  on  rock  and  hill  and  stream  and 

woodland  lay, 
And  softer  lapsed  on  sunnier  sands  the  waters  of 

the  bay. 

Thanksgiving  to  the  Lord  of  life !  to  Him  all 
praises  be, 

Who  from  the  hands  of  evil  men  hath  set  his  hand- 
maid free ; 

All  praise  to  Him  before  whose  power  the  mighty 
are  afraid, 

Who  takes  the  crafty  in  the  snare  which  for  the 
poor  is  laid ! 

Sing,  O  my  soul,  rejoicingly,  on  evening's  twilight 

calm 

.  Uplift  the  loud  thanksgiving,  pour  forth  the  grate- 
ful psalm  ; 

Let  all  dear  hearts  with  me  rejoice,  as  did  the 
saints  of  old, 

When  of  the  Lord's  good  angel  the  rescued  Peter 
told. 

And  weep  and  howl,  ye  evil  priests  and  mighty 

men  of  wrong, 
The  Lord  shall  smite  the  proud,  and  lay  His  hand 

upon  the  strong. 

Woe  to  the  wicked  rulers  in  His  avenging  hour  ! 
Woe  to  the  wolves  who  seek  the  flocks  to  raven 

and  devour ! 


THE  NEW  WIFE  AND    THE   OLD  75 

But  let  the  humble  ones  arise,  the  poor  in  heart 

be  glad, 
And  let  the  mourning  ones  again  with  robes  of 

praise  be  clad. 
For  He  who  cooled  the  furnace,  and  smoothed  the 

stormy  wave, 
And  tamed  the  Chaldean  lions,  is  mighty  still  to 

save ! 
1843. 


THE  NEW  WIFE  AND  THE    OLD. 

The  following  ballad  is  founded  upon  one  of  the  marvellous 

legends  connected  with  the  famous  General  M ,  of  Hampton, 

New  Hampshire,  who  was  regarded  by  his  neighbors  as  a  Yankee 
Faust,  in  league  with  the  adversary.  I  give  the  story,  as  I  heard 
it  when  a  child,  from  a  venerable  family  visitant. 

DARK  the  halls,  and  cold  the  feast, 
Gone  the  bridemaids,  gone  the  priest. 
All  is  over,  all  is  done, 
Twain  of  yesterday  are  one  ! 
Blooming  girl  and  manhood  gray, 
Autumn  in  the  arms  of  May  ! 

Hushed  within  and  hushed  without, 
Dancing  feet  and  wrestlers'  shout ; 
Dies  the  bonfire  on  the  hill ; 
All  is  dark  and  all  is  still, 
Save  the  starlight,  save  the  breeze 
Moaning  through  the  graveyard  trees  ; 
And  the  great  sea-waves  below, 
Pulse  of  the  midnight  beating  slow. 


76     NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

From  the  brief  dream  of  a  bride 

She  hath  wakened,  at  his  side. 

With  half -uttered  shriek  and  start,  — 

Feels  she  not  his  beating  heart  ? 

And  the  pressure  of  his  arm, 

And  his  breathing  near  and  warm  ? 

Lightly  from  the  bridal  bed 
Springs  that  fair  dishevelled  head, 
And  a  feeling,  new,  intense, 
Half  of  shame,  half  innocence, 
Maiden  fear  and  wonder  speaks 
Through  her  lips  and  changing  cheeks. 

From  the  oaken  mantel  glowing, 
Faintest  light  the  lamp  is  throwing 
On  the  mirror's  antique  mould, 
High-backed  chair,  and  wainscot  old, 
And,  through  faded  curtains  stealing, 
His  dark  sleeping  face  revealing. 

Listless  lies  the  strong  man  there, 
Silver-streaked  his  careless  hair  ; 
Lips  of  love  have  left  no  trace 
On  that  hard  and  haughty  face  ; 
And  that  forehead's  knitted  thought 
Love's  soft  hand  hath  not  unwrought. 

"  Yet,"  she  sighs,  "  he  loves  me  well, 
More  than  these  calm  lips  will  tell. 
Stooping  to  my  lowly  state, 
He  hath  made  me  rich  and  great, 
And  I  bless  him,  though  he  be 
Hard  and  stern  to  all  save  me !  " 


THE  NEW  WIFE  AND   THE   OLD         77 

While  she  speaketh,  falls  the  light 
O'er  her  fingers  small  and  white  ; 
Gold  and  gem,  and  costly  ring 
Back  the  timid  lustre  fling,  — 
Love's  selectest  gifts,  and  rare, 
His  proud  hand  had  fastened  there. 

Gratefully  she  marks  the  glow 
From  those  tapering  lines  of  snow  ; 
Fondly  o'er  the  sleeper  bending 
His  black  hair  with  golden  blending, 
In  her  soft  and  light  caress, 
Cheek  and  lip  together  press. 

Ha  !  —  that  start  of  horror  !  why 
That  wild  stare  and  wilder  cry, 
Full  of  terror,  full  of  pain  ? 
Is  there  madness  in  her  brain  ? 
Ha-  JL  \  that  gasping,  hoarse  and  low, 
"  Spare  me,  —  spare  me,  —  let  me  go  !  " 

God  have  mercy !  —  icy  cold 
Spectral  hands  her  own  enfold, 
Drawing  silently  from  them 
Love's  fair  gifts  of  gold  and  gem. 
"  Waken !  save  me !  "  still  as  death 
At  her  side  he  slumbereth. 

Ring  and  bracelet  all  are  gone, 
And  that  ice-cold  hand  withdrawn  ; 
But  she  hears  a  murmur  low, 
Full  of  sweetness,  full  of  woe, 
Half  a  sigh  and  half  a  moan : 
"  Fear  not !  give  the  dead  her  own  !  " 


78    NARRATIVE   AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

Ah  !  —  the  dead  wife's  voice  she  knows ! 
That  cold  hand  whose  pressure  froze, 
Once  in  warmest  life  had  borne 
Gem  and  band  her  own  hath  worn. 
"  Wake  thee  !  wake  thee  !  "     Lo,  his  eyes 
Open  with  a  dull  surprise. 

In  his  arms  the  strong  man  folds  her, 
Closer  to  his  breast  he  holds  her  ; 
Trembling  limbs  his  own  are  meeting, 
And  he  feels  her  heart's  quick  beating : 
"  Nay,  my  dearest,  why  this  fear  ?  " 
"  Hush  !  "  she  saith,  "  the  dead  is  here  !  " 

"Nay,  a  dream,  — an  idle  dream." 
But  before  the  lamp's  pale  gleam 
Tremblingly  her  hand  she  raises. 
There  no  more  the  diamond  blazes, 
Clasp  of  pearl,  or  ring  of  gold,  — 

"  Ah !  "  she  sighs,  "  her  hand  was  cold !  " 

Broken  words  of  cheer  he  saith, 

But  his  dark  lip  quivereth, 

And  as  o'er  the  past  he  thinketh, 

From  his  young  wife's  arms  he  shrinketh  ; 

Can  those  soft  arms  round  him  lie, 

Underneath  his  dead  wife's  eye? 

She  her  fair  young  head  can  rest 

Soothed  and  childlike  on  his  breast, 

And  in  trustful  innocence 

Draw  new  strength  and  courage  thence ; 

He,  the  proud  man,  feels  within 

But  the  cowardice  of  sin  ! 


THE  BRIDAL    OF  PENNACOOK  79 

She  can  murmur  in  her  thought 
Simple  prayers  her  mother  taught, 
And  His  blessed  angels  call, 
Whose  great  love  is  over  all ; 
He,  alone,  in  prayerless  pride, 
Meets  the  dark  Past  at  her  side ! 

One,  who  living  shrank  with  dread 
From  his  look,  or  word,  or  tread, 
Unto  whom  her  early  grave 
Was  as  freedom  to  the  slave, 
Moves  him  at  this  midnight  hour, 
With  the  dead's  unconscious  power ! 

Ah,  the  dead,  the  unforgot ! 

From  their  solemn  homes  of  thought, 

Where  the  cypress  shadows  blend 

Darkly  over  foe  and  friend, 

Or  in  love  or  sad  rebuke, 

Back  upon  the  living  look. 

And  the  tenderest  ones  and  weakest, 
Who  their  wrongs  have  borne  the  meekest. 
Lifting  from  those  dark,  still  places, 
Sweet  and  sad-remembered  faces, 
O'er  the  guilty  hearts  behind 
An  unwitting  triumph  find. 
1843. 

THE  BRIDAL  OF  PENNACOOK. 

Winnepurkit,  otherwise  called  George,  Sachem  of  Sangns,  mar- 
ried a  daughter  of  Passaconaway,  the  great  Pennacook  chieftain, 
The  wedding  took  place  at  Pennacook  (now  Concord, 


80    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

N.  H.),  and  the  ceremonies  closed  with  a  great  feast.  According 
to  the  usages  of  the  chiefs,  Passaconaway  ordered  a  select  num- 
ber of  his  men  to  accompany  the  newly-married  couple  to  the 
dwelling  of  the  hushand,  where  in  turn  there  was  another  great 
feast.  Some  time  after,  the  wife  of  Winnepurkit  expressing  a  de- 
sire to  visit  her  father's  house  was  permitted  to  go,  accompanied 
by  a  brave  escort  of  her  husband's  chief  men.  But  when  she 
wished  to  return,  her  father  sent  a  messenger  to  Saugus,  inform- 
ing her  husband,  and  asking  him  to  come  and  take  her  away. 
He  returned  for  answer  that  he  had  escorted  his  wife  to  her  fa- 
ther's house  in  a  style  that  became  a  chief,  and  that  now  if  she 
wished  to  return,  her  father  must  send  her  back,  in  the  same  way. 
This  Passaconaway  refused  to  do,  and  it  is  said  that  here  termi- 
nated the  connection  of  his  daughter  with  the  Saugus  chief.  — 
Vide  MORTON'S  New  Canaan. 

WE  had  been  wandering  for  many  days 

Through   the  rough  northern  country.      We  had 

seen 

The  sunset,  with  its  bars  of  purple  cloud, 
Like  a  new  heaven,  shine  upward  from  the  lake 
Of  Winnepiseogee  ;  and  had  felt 
The  sunrise  breezes,  midst  the  leafy  isles 
Which  stoop  their  summer  beauty  to  the  lips 
Of  the  bright  waters.    We  had  checked  our  steeds, 
Silent  with  wonder,  where  the  mountain  wall 
Is  piled  to  heaven  ;  and,  through  the  narrow  rift 
Of  the  vast  rocks,  against  whose  rugged  feet 
Beats  the  mad  torrent  with  perpetual  roar, 
Where  noonday  is  as  twilight,  and  the  wind 
Comes  burdened  with  the  everlasting  moan 
Of  forests  and  of  far-off  waterfalls, 
We  had  looked  upward  where  the  summer  sky, 
Tasselled  with  clouds  light-woven  by  the  sun, 
Sprung  its  blue  arch  above  the  abutting  crags 
O'er-roofing  the  vast  portal  of  the  land 
Beyond  the  wall  of  mountains.     We  had  passed 


THE  BRIDAL   OF  PENNACOOK  81 

The  high  source  of  the  Saco ;  and  bewildered 
In  the  dwarf  spruce-belts  of  the  Crystal  Hills, 
Had  heard  above  us,  like  a  voice  in  the  cloud, 
The  horn  of  Fabyan  sounding  ;  and  atop 
Of  old  Agioochook  had  seen  the  mountains' 
Piled  to  the  northward,  shagged  with  wood,  and 

thick 

As  meadow  mole-hills,  —  the  far  sea  of  Casco, 
A  white  gleam  on  the  horizon  of  the  east ; 
Fair  lakes,  embosomed  in  the  woods  and  hills ; 
Moosehi Hock's  mountain  range,  and  Kearsarge 
Lifting  his  granite  forehead  to  the  sun ! 

And  we  had  rested  underneath  the  oaks 
Shadowing   the   bank,   whose    grassy   spires    are 

shaken 

By  the  perpetual  beating  of  the  falls 
Of  the  wild  Ammonoosuc.     We  had  tracked 
The  winding  Pemigewasset,  overhung 
By  beechen  shadows,  whitening  down  its  rocks, 
Or  lazily  gliding  through  its  intervals, 
From  waving  rye-fields  sending  up  the  gleam 
Of  sunlit  waters.     We  had  seen  the  moon 
Rising  behind  Umbagog's  eastern  pines, 
Like  a  great  Indian  camp-fire  ;  and  its  beams 
At  midnight  spanning  with  a  bridge  of  silver 
The  Merrimac  by  Uncanoonuc's  falls. 

There  were  five  souls  of  us  whom  travel's  chance 
Had  thrown  together  in  these  wild  north  hills  : 
A  city  lawyer,  for  a  month  escaping 
From  his  dull  office,  where  the  weary  eye 
Saw  only   hot    brick  walls    and   close   thronged 
streets ; 

VOL.   I.          6 


82    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

Briefless  as  yet,  but  with  an  eye  to  see 

Life's  sunniest  side,  and  with  a  heart  to  take 

Its  chances  all  as  godsends  ;  and  his  brother, 

Pale  from  long  pulpit  studies,  yet  retaining 

The  warmth  and  freshness  of  a  genial  heart, 

Whose  mirror  of  the  beautiful  and  true, 

In  Man  and  Nature,  was  as  yet  undimmed 

By  dust  of  theologic  strife,  or  breath 

Of  sect,  or  cobwebs  of  scholastic  lore  ; 

Like  a  clear  crystal  calm  of  water,  taking 

The  hue  and  image  of  o'erleaning  flowers, 

Sweet  human  faces,  white  clouds  of  the  noon, 

Slant  starlight  glimpses  through  the  dewy  leaves, 

And  tenderest  moonrise.     'T  was,  in  truth,  a  study, 

To  mark  his  spirit,  alternating  between 

A  decent  and  professional  gravity 

And  an  irreverent  mirthfulness,  which  often 

Laughed  in  the  face  of  his  divinity, 

Plucked  off  the  sacred  ephod,  quite  unshrined 

The  oracle,  and  for  the  pattern  priest 

Left  us  the  man.     A  shrewd,  sagacious  merchant, 

To  whom  the  soiled  sheet  found  in  Crawford's  inn, 

Giving  the  latest  news  of  city  stocks 

And  sales  of  cotton,  had  a  deeper  meaning 

Than  the  great  presence  of  the  awful  mountains 

Glorified  by  the  sunset ;  and  his  daughter, 

A  delicate  flower  on  whom  had  blown  too  long 

Those  evil  winds,  which,  sweeping  from  the  ice 

And  winnowing  the  fogs  of  Labrador, 

Shed  their  cold  blight  round  Massachusetts  Bay, 

With  the  same  breath  which  stirs  Spring's  opening 


And  lifts  her  half-formed  flower-bell  on  its  stem, 
Poisoning  our  seaside  atmosphere. 


THE  BRIDAL   OF  PEN N A  CO  OK  83 

It  chanced 

That  as  we  turned  upon  our  homeward  way, 
A  drear  northeastern  storm  came  howling  up 
The  valley  of  the  Saco ;  and  that  girl 
Who  had  stood  with  us  upon  Mount  Washington, 
Her  brown  locks  ruffled  by  the  wind  which  whirled 
In  gusts  around  its  sharp,  cold  pinnacle, 
Who  had  joined  our  gay  trout-fishing  in  the  streams 
Which  lave  that  giant's  feet;   whose  laugh  was 

heard 

Like  a  bird's  carol  on  the  sunrise  breeze 
Which  swelled  our  sail  amidst  the  lake's   green 

islands, 
Shrank  from  its  harsh,  chill  breath,  and  visibly 

drooped 

Like  a  flower  in  the  frost.     So,  in  that  quiet  inn 
Which  looks  from  Con  way  on  the  mountains  piled 
Heavily  against  the  horizon  of  the  north, 
Like  summer  thunder-clouds,  we  made  our  home  : 
And  while  the  mist  hung  over  dripping  hills, 
And  the  cold  wind-driven  rain-drops  all  day  long 
Beat  their  sad  music  upon  roof  and  pane, 
We  strove  to  cheer  our  gentle  invalid. 

The  lawyer  in  the  pauses  of  the  storm 

W^ent  angling  down  the  Saco,  and,  returning, 

Recounted  his  adventures  and  mishaps  ; 

Gave  us  the  history  of  his  scaly  clients, 

Mingling  with  ludicrous  yet  apt  citations 

Of  barbarous  law  Latin,  passages 

From  Izaak  Walton's  Angler,  sweet  and  fresh 

As  the  flower-skirted  streams  of  Staffordshire, 

Where,  under  aged  trees,  the  southwest  wind 

Of  soft  June  mornings  fanned  the  thin,  white  hair 


84    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

Of  the  sage  fisher.     And,  if  truth  be  told, 

Our  youthful  candidate  forsook  his  sermons, 

His  commentaries,  articles  and  creeds, 

For  the  fair  page  of  human  loveliness, 

The  missal  of  young  hearts,  whose  sacred  text 

Is  music,  its  illumining,  sweet  smiles. 

He  sang  the  songs  she  loved  ;  and  in  his  low, 

Deep,  earnest  voice,  recited  many  a  page 

Of  poetry,  the  holiest,  tenderest  lines 

Of  the  sad  bard  of  Olney,  the  sweet  songs, 

Simple  and  beautiful  as  Truth  and  Nature, 

Of  him  whose  whitened  locks  on  Rydal  Mount 

Are  lifted  yet  by  morning  breezes  blowing 

From  the  green  hills,  immortal  in  his  lays. 

And  for  myself,  obedient  to  her  wish, 

I  searched  our  landlord's  proffered  library,  — 

A  well-thumbed  Bunyan,  with  its  nice  wood  pictures 

Of  scaly  fiends  and  angels  not  unlike  them  ; 

Watts'  unmelodious  psalms  ;  Astrology's 

Last  home,  a  musty  pile  of  almanacs, 

And  an  old  chronicle  of  border  wars 

And  Indian  history.     And,  as  I  read 

A  story  of  the  marriage  of  the  Chief 

Of  Saugus  to  the  dusky  Weetamoo, 

Daughter  of  Passaconaway,  who  dwelt 

In  the  old  time  upon  the  Merrimac, 

Our  fair  one,  in  the  playful  exercise 

Of  her  prerogative,  —  the  right  divine 

Of  youth  and  beauty,  —  bade  us  versify 

The  legend,  and  with  ready  pencil  sketched 

Its  plan  and  outlines,  laughingly  assigning 

To  each  his  part,  and  barring  our  excuses 

With  absolute  will.     So,  like  the  cavaliers 

Whose  voices  still  are  heard  in  the  Romance 


THE  BRIDAL   OF  PENNACOOK  85 

Of  silver-tongued  Boccaccio,  on  the  banks 
Of  Arno,  with  soft  tales  of  love  beguiling 
The  ear  of  languid  beauty,  plague-exiled 
From  stately  Florence,  we  rehearsed  our  rhymes 
To  their  fair  auditor,  and  shared  by  turns 
Her  kind  approval  and  her  playful  censure. 

It  may  be  that  these  fragments  owe  alone 
To  the  fair  setting  of  their  circumstances, — 
The  associations  of  time,  scene,  and  audience, — 
Their  place  amid  the  pictures  which  fill  up 
The  chambers  of  my  memory.     Yet  I  trust 
That  some,  who  sigh,  while  wandering  in  thought, 
Pilgrims  of  Romance  o'er  the  olden  world, 
That  our  broad  land,  —  our  sea-like  lakes  and  moun- 
tains 

Piled  to  the  clouds,  our  rivers  overhung 
By  forests  which  have  known  no  other  change 
For  ages  than  the  budding  and  the  fall 
Of  leaves,  our  valleys  lovelier  than  those 
Which  the  old  poets  sang  of,  —  should  but  figure 
On  the  apocryphal  chart  of  speculation 
As  pastures,  wood-lots,  mill-sites,  with  the  privileges, 
Rights,  and  appurtenances,  which  make  up 
A  Yankee  Paradise,  unsung,  unknown, 
To  beautiful  tradition  ;  even  their  names, 
Whose  melody  yet  lingers  like  the  last 
Vibration  of  the  red  man's  requiem, 
Exchanged  for  syllables  significant, 
Of  cotton-mill  and  rail-car,  will  look  kindly 
Upon  this  effort  to  call  up  the  ghost 
Of  our  dim  Past,  and  listen  with  pleased  ear 
To  the  responses  of  the  questioned  Shade. 


86    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 
I.   THE  MERRIMAC. 

O    child    of    that   white-crested  mountain  whose 

springs 
Gush   forth   in    the    shade    of    the    cliff  -  eagle's 

wings, 
Down  whose  slopes  to  the  lowlands  thy  wild  waters 

shine, 
Leaping  gray  walls  of  rock,  flashing  through  the 

dwarf  pine ; 

From  that  cloud-curtained  cradle  so  cold  and  so 

lone, 
From  the  arms  of  that  wintry-locked  mother  of 

stone, 
By  hills  hung  with  forests,  through  vales  wide  and 

free, 
Thy  mountain-born  brightness  glanced  down  to  the 

sea! 

No  bridge  arched  thy  waters  save  that  where  the 

trees 
Stretched  their  long  arms  above  thee  and  kissed  in 

the  breeze : 
No  sound  save  the  lapse   of  the  waves   on  thy 

shores, 
The  plunging  of  otters,  the  light  dip  of  oars. 

Green-tufted,  oak-shaded,  by  Amoskeag's  fall 
Thy  twin  Uncanoonucs  rose  stately  and  tall, 
Thy  Nashua  meadows  lay  green  and  unshorn, 
And  the  hills  of  Pentucket  were  tasselled  with 
corn. 


THE  BRIDAL   OF  PENNACOOK  87 

But  thy  Pennacook  valley  was  faii'er  than  these, 
And  greener  its  grasses  and  taller  its  trees, 
Ere  the  sound  of  an  axe  in  the  forest  had  rung, 
Or   the   mower  his  scythe   in   the  meadows  had 
swung. 

In  their  sheltered   repose   looking  out  from   the 

wood 

The  bark-builded  wigwams  of  Pennacook  stood  ; 
There  glided  the  corn-dance,  the  council-fire  shone, 
And  against  the   red   war-post   the   hatchet   was 

thrown. 

There  the  old  smoked  in  silence  their  pipes,  and 

the  young 
To  the  pike  and  the  white-perch  their  baited  lines 

flung ; 
There  the  boy  shaped  his  arrows,  and  there  the 

shy  maid 
Wove  her  many-hued  baskets  and  bright  wampum 

braid. 

O  Stream  of  the  Mountains  !  if  answer  of  thine 
Could  rise  from  thy  waters  to  question  of  mine, 
Methinks  through  the  din  of  thy  thronged  banks 

a  moan 
Of  sorrow  would  swell  for  the  days  which  have 

gone. 

Not  for  thee  the  dull  jar  of  the  loom  and  the  wheel, 
The  gliding  of  shuttles,  the  ringing  of  steel ; 
But  that  old  voice  of  waters,  of  bird  and  of  breeze, 
The  dip  of  the  wild-fowl,  the  rustling  of  trees ! 


88    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 
II.    THE   BASHABA.2 

Lift  we  the  twilight  curtains  of  the  Past, 

And,  turning  from  familiar  sight  and  sound, 
Sadly  and  full  of  reverence  let  us  cast 

A  glance  upon  Tradition's  shadowy  ground, 
Led  by  the  few  pale  lights  which,  glimmering  round 
That  dim,  strange  land  of  Eld,  seem  dying  fast  ; 
And  that  which  history  gives  not  to  the  eye, 
The  faded  coloring  of  Time's  tapestry, 
Let  Fancy,  with  her  dream-dipped  brush,  supply. 

Roof  of  bark  and  walls  of  pine, 

Through  whose  chinks  the  sunbeams  shine, 

Tracing  many  a  golden  line 

On  the  ample  floor  within  ; 
Where,  upon  that  earth-floor  stark, 
Lay  the  gaudy  mats  of  bark, 
With  the  bear's  hide,  rough  and  dark, 

And  the  red-deer's  skin. 

Window-tracery,  small  and  slight, 
Woven  of  the  willow  white, 
Lent  a  dimly  checkered  light ; 

And  the  night-stars  glimmered  down, 
Where  the  lodge-fire's  heavy  smoke, 
Slowly  through  an  opening  broke, 
In  the  low  roof,  ribbed  with  oak, 

Sheathed  with  hemlock  brown. 

Gloomed  behind  the  changeless  shade 
By  the  solemn  pine-wood  made ; 
Through  the  rugged  palisade, 
In  the  open  foreground  planted, 


THE  BRIDAL   OF  PENNACOOK  89 

Glimpses  came  of  rowers  rowing, 
Stir  of  leaves  and  wild-flowers  blowing, 
Steel-like  gleams  of  water  flowing, 
In  the  sunlight  slanted. 

Here  the  mighty  Bash  aba 

Held  his  long-unquestioned  sway, 

From  the  White  Hills,  far  away, 

To  the  great  sea's  sounding  shore  ; 
Chief  of  chiefs,  his  regal  word 
All  the  river  Sachems  heard, 
At  his  call  the  war-dance  stirred, 

Or  was  still  once  more. 

There  his  spoils  of  chase  and  war, 
Jaw  of  wolf  and  black  bear's  paw, 
Panther's  skin  and  eagle's  claw, 

Lay  beside  his  axe  and  bow  ; 
And,  adown  the  roof-pole  hung, 
Loosely  on  a  snake-skin  strung, 
In  the  smoke  his  scalp-locks  swung 

Grimly  to  and  fro. 

Nightly  down  the  river  going, 
Swifter  was  the  hunter's  rowing, 
When  he  saw  that  lodge-fire  glowing 

O'er  the  waters  still  and  red ; 
And  the  squaw's  dark  eye  burned  brighter, 
And  she  drew  her  blanket  tighter, 
As,  with  quicker  step  and  lighter, 
From  that  door  she  fled. 

For  that  chief  had  magic  skill, 
And  a  Panisee's  dark  will, 


90    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

Over  powers  of  good  and  ill, 

Powers  which  bless  and  powers  which  ban ; 
Wizard  lord  of  Pennacook, 
Chiefs  upon  their  war-path  shook, 
When  they  met  the  steady  look 

Of  that  wise  dark  man. 

Tales  of  him  the  gray  squaw  told, 
When  the  winter  night- wind  cold 
Pierced  her  blanket's  thickest  fold, 

And  her  fire  burned  low  and  small, 
Till  the  very  child  abed, 
Drew  its  bear-skin  over  head, 
Shrinking  from  the  pale  lights  shed 

On  the  trembling  wall. 

All  the  subtle  spirits  hiding 
Under  earth  or  wave,  abiding 
In  the  caverned  rock,  or  riding 

Misty  clouds  or  morning  breeze ; 
Every  dark  intelligence, 
Secret  soul,  and  influence 
Of  all  things  which  outward  sense 

Feels,  or  hears,  or  sees,  — 

These  the  wizard's  skill  confessed, 
At  his  bidding  banned  or  blessed, 
Stormful  woke  or  lulled  to  rest 

Wind  and  cloud,  and  fire  and  flood ; 
Burned  for  him  the  drifted  snow, 
Bade  through  ice  fresh  lilies  blow, 
And  the  leaves  of  summer  grow 

Over  winter's  wood ! 


THE  BRIDAL   OF  PENNACOOK  91 

Not  untrue  that  tale  of  old  ! 
Now,  as  then,  the  wise  and  bold 
All  the  powers  of  Nature  hold 

Subject  to  their  kingly  will; 
From  the  wondering  crowds  ashore, 
Treading  life's  wild  waters  o'er, 
As  upon  a  marble  floor, 

Moves  the  strong  man  still. 

Still,  to  such,  life's  elements 
With  their  sterner  laws  dispense, 
And  the  chain  of  consequence 

Broken  in  their  pathway  lies ; 
Time  and  change  their  vassals  making, 
Flowers  from  icy  pillows  waking, 
Tresses  of  the  sunrise  shaking 

Over  midnight  skies. 

Still,  to  th'  earnest  soul,  the  sun 
Rests  on  towered  Gibeon, 
And  the  moon  of  Ajalon 

Lights  the  battle-grounds  of  life ; 
To  his  aid  the  strong  reverses 
Hidden  powers  and  giant  forces, 
And  the  high  stars,  in  their  courses, 

Mingle  in  his  strife  ! 


III.    THE   DAUGHTER. 

The  soot-black  brows  of  men,  the  yell 
Of  women  thronging  round  the  bed, 

The  tinkling  charm  of  ring  and  shell, 
The  Powah  whispering  o'er  the  dead ! 


92    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

All  these  the  Sachem's  home  had  known, 

When,  on  her  journey  long  and  wild 
To  the  dim  World  of  Souls,  alone, 
In  her  young  beauty  passed  the  mother  of  his  child. 

Three  bow-shots  from  the  Sachem's  dwelling 

They  laid  her  in  the  walnut  shade, 
Where  a  green  hillock  gently  swelling 

Her  fitting  mound  of  burial  made. 
There  trailed  the  vine  in  summer  hours, 

The  tree-perched  squirrel  dropped  his  shell,  — 
On  velvet  moss  and  pale-hued  flowers, 
Woven  with  leaf  and  spray,  the  softened  sunshine 
fell! 

The  Indian's  heart  is  hard  and  cold, 

It  closes  darkly  o'er  its  care, 
And  formed  in  Nature's  sternest  mould, 

Is  slow  to  feel,  and  strong  to  bear. 
The  war-paint  on  the  Sachem's  face, 

Unwet  with  tears,  shone  fierce  and  red, 
And  still,  in  battle  or  in  chase, 
Dry  leaf  and  snow-rime  crisped  beneath  his  fore- 
most tread. 

Yet  when  her  name  was  heard  no  more, 
And  when  the  robe  her  mother  gave, 

And  small,  light  moccasin  she  wore, 
Had  slowly  wasted  on  her  grave, 

Unmarked  of  him  the  dark  maids  sped 
Their  sunset  dance  and  moonlit  play  ; 

No  other  shared  his  lonely  bed, 
No  other  fair  young  head  upon  his  bosom  lay. 


THE  BRIDAL   OF  PENNACOOK  98 

A  lone,  stern  man.     Yet,  as  sometimes 

The  tempest-smitten  tree  receives 
From  one  small  root  the  sap  which  climbs 
Its  topmost  spray  and  crowning  leaves, 
So  from  his  child  the  Sachem  drew 

A  life  of  Love  and  Hope,  and  felt 
His  cold  and  rugged  nature  through 
The  softness  and  the  warmth  of  her  young  being 
melt. 

A  laugh  which  in  the  woodland  rang 

Bemocking  April's  gladdest  bird,  — 
A  light  and  graceful  form  which  sprang 

To  meet  him  when  his  step  was  heard,  — 
Eyes  by  his  lodge-fire  flashing  dark, 

Small  fingers  stringing  bead  and  shell 
Or  weaving  mats  of  bright-hued  bark,  — 
With  these  the  household-god  3  had  graced  his  wig- 
wam well. 

Child  of  the  forest !  strong  and  free, 

Slight-robed,  with  loosely  flowing  hair, 
She  swam  the  lake  or  climbed  the  tree, 

Or  struck  the  flying  bird  in  air. 
O'er  the  heaped  drifts  of  winter's  moon 

Her  snow-shoes  tracked  the  hunter's  way ; 
And  dazzling  in  the  summer  noon 
The  blade  of  her  light  oar  threw  off  its  shower  of 
spray ! 

Unknown  to  her  the  rigid  rule, 

The  dull  restraint,  the  chiding  frown, 

The  weary  torture  of  the  school, 
The  taming  of  wild  nature  down. 


94    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

Her  only  lore,  the  legends  told 

Around  the  hunter's  fire  at  night ; 
Stars  rose  and  set,  and  seasons  rolled, 
Flowers  bloomed  and  snow-flakes  fell,  unquestioned 
in  her  sight. 

Unknown  to  her  the  subtle  skill 

With  which  the  artist-eye  can  trace 

In  rock  and  tree  and  lake  and  hill 
The  outlines  of  divinest  grace  ; 

Unknown  the  fine  soul's  keen  unrest, 
Which  sees,  admires,  yet  yearns  alway ; 

Too  closely  on  her  mother's  breast 
To  note  her  smiles  of  love  the  child  of  Nature  lay ! 

It  is  enough  for  such  to  be 

Of  common,  natural  things  a  part, 
To  feel,  with  bird  and  stream  and  tree, 
The  pulses  of  the  same  great  heart ; 
But  we,  from  Nature  long  exiled, 

In  our  cold  homes  of  Art  and  Thought 
Grieve  like  the  stranger-tended  child, 
Which  seeks  its  mother's  arms,  and  sees  but  feels 
them  not. 

The  garden  rose  may  richly  bloom 

In  cultured  soil  and  genial  air, 
To  cloud  the  light  of  Fashion's  room 

Or  droop  in  Beauty's  midnight  hair  ; 
In  lonelier  grace,  to  sun  and  dew 

The  sweetbrier  on  the  hillside  shows 
Its  single  leaf  and  fainter  hue, 
Untrained  and  wildly  free,  yet  still  a  sister  rose ! 


THE  BRIDAL   OF  PENNACOOK  95 

Thus  o'er  the  heart  of  Weetamoo  • 
Their  mingling-  shades  of  joy  and  ill 

The  instincts  of  her  nature  threw ; 
The  savage  was  a  woman  still. 

Midst  outlines  dim  of  maiden  schemes, 
Heart-colored  prophecies  of  life, 

Rose  on  the  ground  of  her  young  dreams 
The  light  of  a  new  home,  the  lover  and  the  wife. 

IV.    THE   WEDDING. 

Cool  and  dark  fell  the  autumn  night, 
But  the  Bashaba's  wigwam  glowed  with  light, 
For  down  from  its  roof,  by  green  withes  hung, 
Flaring  and  smoking  the  pine-knots  swung. 

And  along  the  river  great  wood-fires 
Shot  into  the  night  their  long,  red  spires, 
Showing  behind  the  tall,  dark  wood, 
Flashing  before  on  the  sweeping  flood. 

In  the  changeful  wind,  with  shimmer  and  shade, 
Now  high,  now  low,  that  firelight  played, 
On  tree-leaves  wet  with  evening  dews, 
On  gliding  water  and  still  canoes. 

The  trapper  that  night  on  Turee's  brook, 
And  the  weary  fisher  on  Contoocook, 
Saw  over  the  marshes,  and  through  the  pine, 
And  down  on  the  river,  the  dance-lights  shine. 

For  the  Saugus  Sachem  had  come  to  woo 
The  Bashaba's  daughter  Weetamoo, 


96   NARRATIVE   AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

And  laid  at  her  father's  feet  that  night 
His  softest  furs  and  wampum  white. 

From  the  Crystal  Hills  to  the  far  southeast 
The  river  Sagamores  came  to  the  feast ; 
And  chiefs  whose  homes  the  sea-winds  shook 
Sat  down  on  the  mats  of  Pennacook. 

They  came  from  Sunapee's  shore  of  rock, 
From  the  snowy  sources  of  Snooganock, 
And  from  rough  Coos  whose  thick  woods  shake 
Their  pine-cones  in  Umbagog  Lake. 

From  Ammonoosuc's  mountain  pass, 
Wild  as  his  home,  came  Chepewass ; 
And  the  Keenomps  of  the  hills  which  throw 
Their  shade  on  the  Smile  of  Manito. 

With  pipes  of  peace  and  bows  unstrung, 
Glowing  with  paint  came  old  and  young, 
In  wampum  and  furs  and  feathers  arrayed, 
To  the  dance  and  feast  the  Bashaba  made. 

Bird  of  the  air  and  beast  of  the  field, 
All  which  the  woods  and  the  waters  yield, 
On  dishes  of  birch  and  hemlock  piled, 
Garnished  and  graced  that  banquet  wild. 

Steaks  of  the  brown  bear  fat  and  large 
From  the  rocky  slopes  of  the  Kearsarge ; 
Delicate  trout  from  Babboosuck  brook, 
And  salmon  speared  in  the  Contoocook ; 


THE  BRIDAL   OF  PENNACOOK  97 

Squirrels  which  fed  where  nuts  fell  thick 
In  the  gravelly  bed  of  the  Otternic ; 
And  small  wild-hens  in  reed-snares  caught 
From  the  banks  of  Sondagardee  brought ; 

Pike  and  perch  from  the  Suncook  taken, 
Nuts  from  the  trees  of  the  Black  Hills  shaken, 
Cranberries  picked  in  the  Squamscot  bog, 
And  grapes  from  the  vines  of  Piscataquog  : 

And,  drawn   from   that   great   stone   vase   which 

stands 

In  the  river  scooped  by  a  spirit's  hands,4 
Garnished  with  spoons  of  shell  and  horn, 
Stood  the  birchen  dishes  of  smoking  corn. 

Thus  bird  of  the  air  and  beast  of  the  field, 
All  which  the  woods  and  the  waters  yield, 
Furnished  in  that  olden  day 
The  bridal  feast  of  the  Bashaba. 

And  merrily  when  that  feast  was  done 
On  the  fire-lit  green  the  dance  begun, 
With  squaws'  shrill  stave,  and  deeper  hum 
Of  old  men  beating  the  Indian  drum. 

Painted  and  plumed,  with  scalp-locks  flowing, 
And  red  arms  tossing  and  black  eyes  glowing, 
Now  in  the  light  and  now  in  the  shade 
Around  the  fires  the  dancers  played. 

The  step  was  quicker,  the  song  more  shrill, 
And  the  beat  of  the  small  drums  louder  still 


98  NARRATIVE   AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

Whenever  within  the  circle  drew 
The  Saugiis  Sachem  and  Weetarnoo. 

The  moons  of  forty  winters  had  shed 
Their  snow  upon  that  chieftain's  head, 
And  toil  and  care  and  battle's  chance 
Had  seamed  his  hard,  dark  countenance. 

A  fawn  beside  the  bison  grim,  — 
Why  turns  the  bride's  fond  eye  on  him, 
In  whose  cold  look  is  naught  beside 
The  triumph  of  a  sullen  pride  ? 

Ask  why  the  graceful  grape  entwines 
The  rough  oak  with  her  arm  of  vines  ; 
And  why  the  gray  rock's  rugged  cheek 
The  soft  lips  of  the  mosses  seek : 

Why,  with  wise  instinct,  Nature  seems 
To  harmonize  her  wide  extremes, 
Linking  the  stronger  with  the  weak, 
The  haughty  with  the  soft  and  meek ! 

V.    THE   NEW   HOME. 

A  wild  and  broken  landscape,  spiked  with  firs, 

Roughening  the  bleak  horizon's  northern  edge  ; 
Steep,  cavernous  hillsides,  where  black  hemlock 

spurs 
And   sharp,   gray  splinters   of  the   wind-swept 

ledge 

Pierced  the  thin-glazed  ice,  or  bristling  rose, 
Where  the  cold  rim  of  the  sky  sunk  down  upon 
the  snows. 


THE  BRIDAL   OF  PENNACOOK  99 

And  eastward  cold,  wide  marshes  stretched  away, 
Dull,  dreary  flats  without  a  bush  or  tree, 

O'er-crossed  by  icy  creeks,  where  twice  a  day 
Gurgled  the  waters  of  the  moon-struck  sea ; 

And  faint  with  distance  came  the  stifled  roar, 

The  melancholy  lapse  of  waves  on  that  low  shore. 

No  cheerful  village  with  its  mingling  smokes, 
No  laugh  of  children  wrestling  in  the  snow, 

No  camp-fire  blazing  through  the  hillside  oaks, 
No  fishers  kneeling  on  the  ice  below ; 

Yet  midst  all  desolate  things  of  sound  and  view, 

Through  the  long  winter  moons  smiled  dark-eyed 
Weetamoo. 

Her  heart  had  found  a  home ;  and  freshly  all 

Its  beautiful  affections  overgrew 
Their  rugged  prop.     As  o'er  some  granite  wall 

Soft  vine-leaves  open  to  the  moistening  dew 
And  warm  bright  sun,  the  love  of  that  young  wife 
Found  on  a  hard  cold  breast  the  dew  and  warmth 
of  life. 

The  steep,  bleak  hills,  the  melancholy  shore, 
The  long,  dead  level  of  the  marsh  between, 

A  coloring  of  unreal  beauty  wore 

Through  the  soft  golden  mist  of  young  love  seen. 

For  o'er  those  hills  and  from  that  dreary  plain, 

Nightly  she  welcomed  home  her  hunter  chief  again. 

No  warmth  of  heart,  no  passionate  burst  of  feeling, 
Repaid  her  welcoming  smile  and  parting  kiss, 

No  fond  and  playful  dalliance  half  concealing, 
Under  the  guise  of  mirth,  its  tenderness ; 


100      NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

But,  in  their  stead,  the  warrior's  settled  pride, 
And  vanity's  pleased  smile  with  homage  satisfied. 

Enough  for  Weetamoo,  that  she  alone 

Sat  on  his  mat  and  slumbered  at  his  side  ; 

That  he  whose  fame  to  her  young  ear  had  flown 
Now  looked  upon  her  proudly  as  his  bride ; 

That  he  whose  name  the  Mohawk  trembling  heard 

Vouchsafed  to  her  at  times  a  kindly  look  or  word. 

For  she  had  learned  the  maxims  of  her  race, 
Which  teach  the  woman  to  become  a  slave, 

And  feel  herself  the  pardonless  disgrace 

Of  love's  fond  weakness  in  the  wise  and  brave,  — 

The  scandal  and  the  shame  which  they  incur, 

Who  give  to  woman  all  which  man  requires  of  her. 

So  passed  the  winter  moons.     The  sun  at  last 
Broke  link  by  link  the  frost  chain  of  the  rills, 

And  the  warm  breathings  of  the  southwest  passed 
Over  the  hoar  rime  of  the  Saugus  hills ; 

The  gray  and  desolate  marsh  grew  green  once  more, 

And  the  birch-tree's  tremulous  shade  fell  round  the 
Sachem's  door. 

Then  from  far  Pennacook  swift  runners  came, 
With  gift  and  greeting  for  the  Saugus  chief ; 

Beseeching  him  in  the  great  Sachem's  name, 
That,  with  the  coming  of  the  flower  and  leaf, 

The  song  of  birds,  the  warm  breeze  and  the  rain, 

Young  Weetamoo  might  greet  her  lonely  sire  again. 

And  Winnepurkit  called  his  chiefs  together, 
And  a  grave  council  in  his  wigwam  met, 


THE  BRIDAL   OF  PEN N A  COOK         101 

Solemn  and  brief  in  words,  considering  whether 

The  rigid  rules  of  forest  etiquette 
Permitted  Weetamoo  once  more  to  look 
Upon  her  father's  face  and  green-banked  Penna- 
cook. 

With  interludes  of  pipe-smoke  and  strong  water, 
The  forest  sages  pondered,  and  at  length, 

Concluded  in  a  body  to  escort  her 

Up  to  her  father's  home  of  pride  and  strength, 

Impressing  thus  on  Pennacook  a  sense 

Of  Winnepurkit's  power  and  regal  consequence. 

So  through  old  woods  which  Aukeetaniit's 5  hand, 
A  soft  and  many-shaded  greenness  lent, 

Over  high  breezy  hills,  and  meadow  land 

Yellow  with  flowers,  the  wild  procession  went, 

Till,  rolling  down  its  wooded  banks  between, 

A  broad,  clear,  mountain  stream,  the   Merrimac 
was  seen. 

The  hunter  leaning  on  his  bow  undrawn, 
The  fisher  lounging  on  the  pebbled  shores, 

Squaws  in  the  clearing  dropping  the  seed-corn, 
Young  children   peering  through  the  wigwam 
doors, 

Saw  with  delight,  surrounded  by  her  train 

Of  painted  Saugus  braves,  their  Weetamoo  again. 


VI.   AT  PESTNACOOK. 

The  hills  are  dearest  which  our  childish  feet 
Have  climbed  the  earliest ;  and  the  streams  most 
sweet 


102     NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

Are  ever  those  at  which  our  young  lips  drank, 
Stooped  to  their  waters  o'er  the  grassy  bank. 

Midst  the  cold  dreary  sea-watch,  Home's  hearth- 
light 

Shines  round  the  helmsman  plunging  through  the 
night ; 

And  still,  with  inward  eye,  the  traveller  sees 

In  close,  dark,  stranger  streets  his  native  trees. 

The  home-sick  dreamer's  brow  is  nightly  fanned 
By  breezes  whispering  of  his  native  land, 
And  on  the  stranger's  dim  and  dying  eye 
The  soft,  sweet  pictures  of  his  childhood  lie. 

Joy  then  for  Weetamoo,  to  sit  once  more 
A  child  upon  her  father's  wigwam  floor  ! 
Once  more  with  her  old  fondness  to  beguile 
From  his  cold  eye  the  strange  light  of  a  smile. 

The  long,  bright  days  of  summer  swiftly  passed, 
The  dry  leaves  whirled  in  autumn's  rising  blast, 
And  evening  cloud  and  whitening  sunrise  rime 
Told  of  the  coming  of  the  winter-time. 

But  vainly  looked,  the  while,  young  Weetamoo, 
Down  the  dark  river  for  her  chief's  canoe ; 
No  dusky  messenger  from  Saugus  brought 
The  grateful  tidings  which  the  young  wife  sought. 

At  length  a  runner  from  her  father  sent, 
To  Winnepurkit's  sea-cooled  wigwam  went : 
"  Eagle  of  Saugus,  —  in  the  woods  the  dove 
Mourns  for  the  shelter  of  thy  wings  of  love." 


THE  BRIDAL   OF  PENNACOOK          103 

But  the  dark  chief  of  Sangus  turned  aside 
In  the  grim  anger  of  hard-hearted  pride ; 
"  I  bore  her  as  became  a  chieftain's  daughter, 
Up  to  her  home  beside  the  gliding  water. 

"  If  now  no  more  a  mat  for  her  is  found 
Of  all  which  line  her  father's  wigwam  round, 
Let  Pennacook  call  out  his  warrior  train, 
And  send  her  back  with  wampum  gifts  again." 

The  baffled  runner  turned  upon  his  track, 
Bearing  the  words  of  Winnepurkit  back. 
"  Dog  of  the  Marsh,"  cried  Pennacook,  "  no  more 
Shall  child  of  mine  sit  on  his  wigwam  floor. 

"  Go,  let  him  seek  some  meaner  squaw  to  spread 
The  stolen  bear-skin  of  his  beggar's  bed  ; 
Son  of  a  fish-hawk  !  let  him  dig  his  clams 
For  some  vile  daughter  of  the  Agawams, 

"  Or  coward  Nipmucks  !  may  his  scalp  dry  black 

In  Mohawk  smoke,  before  I  send  her  back." 

He  shook  his  clenched  hand  towards  the  ocean 

wave, 
While  hoarse  assent  his  listening  council  gave. 

Alas  poor  bride  !  can  thy  grim  sire  impart 
His  iron  hardness  to  thy  woman's  heart  ? 
Or  cold  self-torturing  pride  like  his  atone 
For  love  denied  and  life's  warm  beauty  flown  ? 

On  Autumn's  gray  and  mournful  grave  the  snow 
Hung  its  white  wreaths  ;  with  stifled  voice  and  low 


104     NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

The  river  crept,  by  one  vast  bridge  o'er-crossed, 
Built  by  the  hoar-locked  artisan  of  Frost. 

And  many  a  moon  in  beauty  newly  born 
Pierced  the  red  sunset  with  her  silver  horn, 
Or,  from  the  east,  across  her  azure  field 
Rolled  the  wide  brightness  of  her  full-orbed  shield. 

Yet  Winnepurkit  came  not,  —  on  the  mat 
Of  the  scorned  wife  her  dusky  rival  sat ; 
And  he,  the  while,  in  Western  woods  afar, 
Urged  the  long  chase,  or  trod  the  path  of  war. 

Dry  up  thy  tears,  young  daughter  of  a  chief ! 
Waste  not  on  him  the  sacredness  of  grief ; 
Be  the  fierce  spirit  of  thy  sire  thine  own, 
His  lips  of  scorning,  and  his  heart  of  stone. 

What  heeds  the  warrior  of  a  hundred  fights, 

The   storm-worn   watcher   through    long   hunting 

nights, 

Cold,  crafty,  proud  of  woman's  weak  distress, 
Her  home-bound  grief  and  pining  loneliness  ? 


VII.   THE  DEPARTURE. 

The  wild  March  rains  had  fallen  fast  and  long 
The  snowy  mountains  of  the  North  among, 
Making  each  vale  a  watercourse,  each  hill 
Bright  with  the  cascade  of  some  new-made  rill. 

Gnawed  by  the  sunbeams,  softened  by  the  rain, 
Heaved  underneath  by  the  swollen  current's  strain, 


Too  early  voyager  with  too  frail  an  oar 


THE  BRIDAL  OF  PENNACOOK         105 

The  ice-bridge  yielded,  and  the  Merrimac 
Bore  the  huge  ruin  crashing  down  its  track. 

On  that  strong  turbid  water,  a  small  boat 
Guided  by  one  weak  hand  was  seen  to  float ; 
Evil  the  fate  which  loosed  it  from  the  shore, 
Too  early  voyager  with  too  frail  an  oar ! 

Down  the  vexed  centre  of  that  rushing  tide, 
The  thick  huge  ice-blocks  threatening  either  side, 
The  foam-white  rocks  of  Amoskeag  in  view, 
With  arrowy  swiftness  sped  that  light  canoe. 

The  trapper,  moistening  his  moose's  meat 

On  the  wet  bank  by  Uncanoonuc's  feet, 

Saw  the  swift  boat  flash  down  the  troubled  stream  ; 

Slept  he,  or  waked  he  ?  was  it  truth  or  dream  ? 

The  straining  eye  bent  fearfully  before, 
The  small  hand  clenching  on  the  useless  oar, 
The  bead-wrought  blanket  trailing  o'er  the  water  — 
He  knew  them  all  —  woe  for  the  Sachem's  daugh- 
ter! 

Sick  and  aweary  of  her  lonely  life, 
Heedless  of  peril,  the  still  faithful  wife 
Had  left  her  mother's  grave,  her  father's  door, 
To  seek  the  wigwam  of  her  chief  once  more. 

Down  the  white  rapids  like  a  sear  leaf  whirled, 
On  the  sharp  rocks  and  piled-up  ices  hurled, 
Empty  and  broken,  circled  the  canoe 
In  the  vexed  pool  below  —  but  where  was  Wee- 
tamoo  ? 


106     NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

VIII.    SONG  OF   INDIAN   WOMEN. 
The  Dark  eye  has  left  us, 

The  Spring-bird  has  flown ; 
On  the  pathway  of  spirits 

She  wanders  alone. 

The  song  of  the  wood-dove  has  died  on  our  shore : 
Mat  wonck  kunna-monee  !  6  We  hear  it  no  more  ! 

O  dark  water  Spirit ! 

We  cast  on  thy  wave 
These  furs  which  may  never 

Hang  over  her  grave  ; 

Bear  down  to  the  lost  one  the  robes  that  she  wore : 
Mat  wonck  kunna-monee  !     We  see  her  no  more ! 

Of  the  strange  land  she  walks  in 

No  Powah  has  told  : 
It  may  burn  with  the  sunshine, 

Or  freeze  with  the  cold. 

Let  us  give  to  our  lost  one  the  robes  that  she  wore  : 
Mat  wonck  kunna-monee  !     We  see  her  no  more  ! 

The  path  she  is  treading 

Shall  soon  be  our  own ; 
Each  gliding  in  shadow 

Unseen  and  alone  ! 

In  vain  shall  we  call  on  the  souls  gone  before : 
Mat  wonck  kunna-monee  !     They  hear  us  no  more ! 

O  mighty  Sowanna  !  7 

Thy  gateways  unfold, 
From  thy  wigwam  of  sunset 

Lift  curtains  of  gold  ! 


BARCLAY  OF   URY  107 

Take  home  the  poor  Spirit  whose  journey  is  o'er : 
Mat  wonck  kunna-monee!     We  see  her  no  more  ! 


So  sang  the  Children  of  the  Leaves  beside 
The  broad,  dark  river's  coldly  flowing  tide ; 
Now  low,  now  harsh,  with  sob-like  pause  and  swell, 
On  the  high  wind  their  voices  rose  and  fell. 
Nature's  wild  music,  —  sounds  of  wind-swept  trees, 
The  scream  of  birds,  the  wailing  of  the  breeze, 
The  roar  of  waters,  steady,  deep,  and    strong,  — 
Mingled  and  murmured  in  that  farewell  song. 
1844. 


BARCLAY  OF  URY. 

Among  the  earliest  converts  to  the  doctrines  of  Friends  in  Scot- 
laud  was  Barclay  of  Ury,  an  old  and  distinguished  soldier,  who 
had  fought  under  Gustavus  Adolphus,  in  Germany.  As  a  Qua- 
ker, he  became  the  object  of  persecution  and  abuse  at  the  hands 
of  the  magistrates  and  the  populace.  None  bore  the  indignities 
of  the  mob  with  greater  patience  and  nobleness  of  soul  than  this 
once  proud  gentleman  and  soldier.  One  of  his  friends,  on  an  oc- 
casion of  uncommon  rudeness,  lamented  that  he  should  be  treated 
so  harshly  in  his  old  age  who  had  been  so  honored  before.  "  I 
find  more  satisfaction,"  said  Barclay,  "as  well  as  honor,  in  being 
thus  insulted  for  my  religious  principles,  than  when,  a  few  years 
ago,  it  was  usual  for  the  magistrates,  as  I  passed  the  city  of  Ab- 
erdeen, to  meet  me  on  the  road  and  conduct  me  to  public  enter- 
tainment in  their  hall,  and  then  escort  me  out  again,  to  gain  my 
favor." 

UP  the  streets  of  Aberdeen, 
By  the  kirk  and  college  green, 

Rode  the  Laird  of  Ury ; 
Close  behind  him,  close  beside, 
Foul  of  mouth  and  evil-eyed, 

Pressed  the  mob  in  fury. 


108  NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

Flouted  him  the  drunken  churl, 
Jeered  at  him  the  serving-girl, 

Prompt  to  please  her  master ; 
And  the  begging  carlin,  late 
Fed  and  clothed  at  Ury's  gate, 

Cursed  him  as  he  passed  her. 

Yet,  with  calm  and  stately  mien, 
Up  the  streets  of  Aberdeen 

Came  he  slowly  riding ; 
And,  to  all  he  saw  and  heard, 
Answering  not  with  bitter  word, 

Turning  not  for  chiding. 

Came  a  troop  with  broadswords  swinging, 
Bits  and  bridles  sharply  ringing, 

Loose  and  free  and  f reward ; 
Quoth  the  foremost,  "  Ride  him  down  ! 
Push  him  !  prick  him  !  through  the  town 

Drive  the  Quaker  coward !  " 

But  from  out  the  thickening  crowd 
Cried  a  sudden  voice  and  loud : 

"  Barclay  !  Ho  !  a  Barclay!  " 
And  the  old  man  at  his  side 
Saw  a  comrade,  battle  tried, 

Scarred  and  sunburned  darkly ; 

"Who  with  ready  weapon  bare, 
Fronting  to  the  troopers  there, 

Cried  aloud :  "  God  save  us, 
Call  ye  coward  him  who  stood 
Ankle  deep  in  Liitzen's  blood, 

With  the  brave  Gustavus  ?  " 


BARCLAY  OF   URY  109 

"  Nay,  I  do  not  need  thy  sword, 
Comrade  mine,"  said  Ury's  lord; 

"  Put  it  up,  I  pray  thee : 
Passive  to  His  holy  will, 
Trust  I  in  my  Master  still, 

Even  though  He  slay  me. 

"  Pledges  of  thy  love  and  faith, 
Proved  on  many  a  field  of  death, 

Not  by  me  are  needed." 
Marvelled  much  that  henchman  bold, 
That  his  laird,  so  stout  of  old, 

Now  so  meekly  pleaded. 

"  Woe  's  the  day  !  "  he  sadly  said, 
With  a  slowly  shaking  head, 

And  a  look  of  pity ; 
"  Ury's  honest  lord  reviled, 
Mock  of  knave  and  sport  of  child, 
In  his  own  good  city  ! 

"  Speak  the  word,  and,  master  mine, 
As  we  charged  on  Tilly's  8  line, 

And  his  Walloon  lancers, 
Smiting  through  their  midst  we  '11  teach 
Civil  look  and  decent  speech 

To  these  boyish  prancers !  " 

"  Marvel  not,  mine  ancient  friend, 
Like  beginning,  like  the  end  :  " 

Quoth  the  Laird  of  Ury ; 
"  Is  the  sinful  servant  more 
Than  his  gracious  Lord  who  bore 
Bonds  and  stripes  in  Jewry  ? 


110     NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

"  Give  me  joy  that  in  His  name 
I  can  bear,  with  patient  frame, 
All  these  vain  ones  offer  ; 
While  for  them  He  suffereth  long, 
Shall  I  answer  wrong  with  wrong, 
Scoffing  with  the  scoffer  ? 

"  Happier  I,  with  loss  of  all, 
Hunted,  outlawed,  held  in  thrall, 

With  few  friends  to  greet  me, 
Than  when  reeve  and  squire  were  seen, 
Riding  out  from  Aberdeen, 

With  bared  heads  to  meet  me. 

"  When  each  goodwife,  o'er  and  o'er, 
Blessed  me  as  I  passed  her  door  ; 

And  the  snooded  daughter, 
Through  her  casement  glancing  down, 
Smiled  on  him  who  bore  renown 

From  red  fields  of  slaughter. 

"  Hard  to  feel  the  stranger's  scoff, 
Hard  the  old  friend's  falling  off, 

Hard  to  learn  forgiving ; 
But  the  Lord  His  own  rewards, 
And  His  love  with  theirs  accords, 
Warm  and  fresh  and  living. 

"  Through  this  dark  and  stormy  night 
Faith  beholds  a  feeble  light 

Up  the  blackness  streaking  ; 
Knowing  God's  own  time  is  best, 
In  a  patient  hope  I  rest 

For  the  full  day-breaking  I  " 


BARCLAY  OF   URY  111 

So  the  Laird  of  Ury  said, 
Turning  slow  his  horse's  head 

Towards  the  Tolbooth  prison, 
Where,  through  iron  gates,  he  heard 
Poor  disciples  of  the  Word 

Preach  of  Christ  arisen  ! 

Not  in  vain,  Confessor  old, 
Unto  us  the  tale  is  told 

Of  thy  day  of  trial ; 
Every  age  on  him  who  strays 
From  its  broad  and  beaten  ways 

Pours  its  seven-fold  vial. 

Happy  he  whose  inward  ear 
Angel  comfortings  can  hear, 

O'er  the  rabble's  laughter  ; 
And  while  Hatred's  fagots  burn, 
Glimpses  through  the  smoke  discern 

Of  the  good  hereafter. 

Knowing  this,  that  never  yet 
Share  of  Truth  was  vainly  set 

In  the  world's  wide  fallow  ; 
After  hands  shall  sow  the  seed, 
After  hands  from  hill  and  mead 

Reap  the  harvests  yellow. 

Thus,  with  somewhat  of  the  Seer, 
Must  the  moral  pioneer 

From  the  Future  borrow ; 
Clothe  the  waste  with  dreams  of  grain, 
And,  on  midnight's  sky  of  rain, 
Paint  the  golden  morrow ! 
1847. 


112     NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 


THE  ANGELS  OF  BUENA  VISTA. 

A  letter-writer  from  Mexico  during  the  Mexican  war,  when  de- 
tailing some  of  the  incidents  at  the  terrible  fight  of  Buena  Vista, 
mentioned  that  Mexican  women  were  seen  hovering  near  the  field 
of  death,  for  the  purpose  of  giving  aid  and  succor  to  the  wound- 
ed- One  poor  woman  was  found  surrounded  by  the  maimed  and 
suffering  of  both  armies,  ministering  to  the  wants  of  Americans 
as  well  as  Mexicans,  with  impartial  tenderness. 

SPEAK  and  tell  us,  our  Ximena,  looking  northward 

far  away, 
O'er  the  camp  of  the  invaders,  o'er  the  Mexican 

array, 
Who  is  losing  ?  who  is  winning  ?  are  they  far  or 

come  they  near  ? 
Look  abroad,  and  tell  us,  sister,  whither  rolls  the 

storm  we  hear. 

"  Down  the  hills  of  Angostura  still  the  storm  of 

battle  rolls ; 
Blood  is  flowing,  men  are  dying ;  God  have  mercy 

on  their  souls  !  " 
Who   is   losing  ?    who    is  winning  ?     "  Over  hill 

and  over  plain, 
I  see  but  smoke  of  cannon  clouding  through  the 

mountain  rain." 

Holy  Mother !  keep  our  brothers  !  Look,  Ximena, 

look  once  more. 
"  Still  I  see  the  fearful  whirlwind  rolling  darkly 

as  before, 


THE  ANGELS  OF  BUENA    VISTA        113 

Bearing  oil,  in  strange  confusion,  friend  and  foe- 
man,  foot  and  horse, 

Like  some  wild  and  troubled  torrent  sweeping 
down  its  mountain  course." 

Look  forth  once  more,  Ximena  !  "  Ah !  the  smoke 
has  rolled  away ; 

And  I  see  the  Northern  rifles  gleaming  down  the 
ranks  of  gray. 

Hark !  that  sudden  blast  of  bugles  !  there  the  troop 
of  Minon  wheels  ; 

There  the  Northern  horses  thunder,  with  the  can- 
non at  their  heels. 

"  Jesu,  pity !    how  it  thickens !  now  retreat  and 

now  advance ! 
Right  against  the  blazing  cannon  shivers  Puebla's 

charging  lance  ! 
Down  they  go,  the  brave  young  riders ;  horse  and 

foot  together  fall ; 
Like  a  ploughshare   in  the  fallow,  through  them 

ploughs  the  Northern  ball." 

Nearer  came  the  storm  and  nearer,  rolling  fast  and 

frightful  on  ! 
Speak,  Ximena,  speak  and  tell  us,  who  has  lost, 

and  who  has  won  ? 
"  Alas  !  alas  !  I  know  not ;  friend  and  foe  together 

fall, 
O'er  the  dying  rush  the  living :  pray,  my  sisters, 

for  them  all ! 


114     NA  UK  A  77  VE  A  ND  LEGEND  A  R  Y  POEMS 

"  Lo !    the    wind   the   smoke   is   lifting.     Blessed 

Mother,  save  ray  brain  ! 
I  can  see  the  wounded  crawling  slowly  out  from 

heaps  of  slain. 
Now  they  stagger,  blind   and  bleeding ;  now  they 

fall,  and  strive  to  rise ; 
Hasten,  sisters,  haste  and  save  them,  lest  they  die 

before  our  eyes! 

"  O  my  heart's  love !     O  my  dear  one !  lay  thy 

poor  head  on  my  knee  ; 
Dost  thou  know  the  lips  that  kiss  thee?     Canst 

thou  hear  me?  canst  thou  see? 
O  my  husband,  brave  and  gentle  !    O  my  Bernal, 

look  once  more 
On  the  blessed  cross  before  thee  !  Mercy  !  mercy ! 

all  is  o'er  !  " 

Dry  thy  tears,  my  poor  Ximena ;  lay  thy  dear  one 

down  to  rest ; 
Let  his  hands  be  meekly  folded,  lay  the  cross  upon 

his  breast ; 
Let  his  dirge  be  sung  hereafter,  and  his  funeral 

masses  said ; 
To-day,  thou  poor  bereaved  one,  the  living  ask  thy 

aid. 

Close  beside  her,  faintly  moaning,  fair  and  young, 

a  soldier  lay, 
Torn  with  sliot  and  pierced  with  lances,  bleeding 

slow  his  life  away; 


THE  ANGELS   OF  BUENA    VISTA        115 

But,  as  tenderly  before  him  the  lorn  Ximena  knelt, 
She  saw  the  Northern  eagle  shining  on  his  pistol- 
belt. 

With  a  stifled  cry  of  horror  straight  she  turned 

away  her  head ; 
With  a  sad  and  bitter  feeling  looked  she  back  upon 

her  dead ; 
But  she  heard  the  youth's  low  moaning,  and  his 

struggling  breath  of  pain, 
And  she  raised  the  cooling  water  to  his  parching 

lips  again. 

Whispered  low  the  dying  soldier,  pressed  her  hand 
and  faintly  smiled  ; 

Was  that  pitying  face  his  mother's  ?  did  she  watch 
beside  her  child  ? 

All  his  stranger  words  with  meaning  her  woman's 
heart  supplied  ; 

With  her  kiss  upon  his  forehead,  "  Mother  !  "  mur- 
mured he,  and  died ! 

"  A  bitter  curse  upon  them,  poor  boy,  who  led  thee 
forth, 

From  some  gentle,  sad-eyed  mother,  weeping,  lone- 
ly, in  the  North  !  " 

Spake  the  mournful  Mexic  woman,  as  she  laid  him 
with  her  dead, 

And  turned  to  soothe  the  living,  and  bind  the 
wounds  which  bled. 

Look  forth  once  more,  Ximena!  "Like  a  cloud 
before  the  wind 


116     NARRA  TIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

Rolls  the  battle  down  the  mountains,  leaving  blood 

and  death  behind ; 
Ah !  they  plead  in  vain  for  mercy ;  in  the  dust  the 

wounded  strive ; 
Hide  your  faces,   holy  angels !     O  thou  Christ  of 

God,  forgive !  " 

Sink,  O  Night,  among  thy  mountains !  let  the  cool, 

gray  shadows  fall ; 
Dying  brothers,  fighting  demons,  drop  thy  curtain 

over  all ! 
Through  the  thickening  winter  twilight,  wide  apart 

the  battle  rolled, 
In  its  sheath  the  sabre  rested,  and  the  cannon's 

lips  grew  cold. 

But  the  noble  Mexic  women  still  their  holy  task 

pursued, 
Through  that  long,  dark  night  of  sorrow,  worn  and 

faint  and  lacking  food. 
Over  weak  and  suffering  brothers,  with  a  tender 

care  they  hung, 
And  the  dying  foeman  blessed  them  in  a  strange 

and  Northern  tongue. 

Not  wholly  lost,  O  Father!  is  this  evil  world  of 

ours ; 
Upward,  through  its  blood  and  ashes,  spring  afresh 

the  Eden  flowers  ; 
From  its  smoking  hell  of  battle,  Love  and  Pity 

send  their  prayer, 
And  still  thy  white-winged  angels  hover  dimly  in 

our  air ! 
1847. 


THE  LEGEND   OF  ST.  MARK  117 


THE  LEGEND  OF  ST.  MARK. 

"  This  legend  [to  which  my  attention  was  called  by  my  friend 
Charles  Sumner],  is  the  subject  of  a  celebrated  picture  by  Tinto- 
retto, of  which  Mr.  Rogers  possesses  the  original  sketch.  The 
slave  lies  on  the  ground,  amid  a  crowd  of  spectators,  who  look  on, 
animated  by  all  the  various  emotions  of  sympathy,  rage,  terror ; 
a  woman,  in  front,  with  a  child  in  her  arms,  has  always  been  ad- 
mired for  the  lifelike  vivacity  of  her  attitude  and  expression. 
The  executioner  holds  up  the  broken  implements  ;  St.  Mark,  with 
a  headlong  movement,  seems  to  rush  down  from  heaven  in  haste 
to  save  his  worshipper.  The  dramatic  grouping  in  this  picture  is 
wonderful ;  the  coloring,  in  its  gorgeous  depth  and  harmony,  is, 
in  Mr.  Rogers' s  sketch,  finer  than  in  the  picture."  —  MRS.  JAME- 
SON'S Sacred  and  Legendary  Art,  i.  154 

THE  clay  is  closing  dark  and  cold, 

With  roaring  blast  and  sleety  showers ; 

And  through  the  dusk  the  lilacs  wear 
The  bloom  of  snow,  instead  of  flowers. 


I  turn  me  from  the  gloom  without, 
To  ponder  o'er  a  tale  of  old ; 

A  legend  of  the  age  of  Faith, 

By  dreaming  monk  or  abbess  told. 

On  Tintoretto's  canvas  lives 
That  fancy  of  a  loving  heart, 

In  graceful  lines  and  shapes  of  power, 
And  hues  immortal  as  his  art. 

In  Provence  (so  the  story  runs) 

There  lived  a  lord,  to  whom,  as  slave, 

A  peasant-boy  of  tender  years 

The  chance  of  trade  or  conquest  gave. 


118     NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

Forth-looking  from  the  castle  tower, 
Beyond  the  hills  with  almonds  dark, 

The  straining  eye  could  scarce  discern 
The  chapel  of  the  good  St.  Mark. 

And  there,  when  bitter  word  or  fare 
The  service  of  the  youth  repaid, 

By  stealth,  before  that  holy  shrine, 

For  grace  to  bear  his  wrong,  he  prayed. 

The  steed  stamped  at  the  castle  gate, 
The  boar-hunt  sounded  on  the  hill ; 

Why  stayed  the  Baron  from  the  chase, 
With  looks  so  stern,  and  words  so  ill? 

"  Go,  bind  yon  slave !  and  let  him  learn, 

By  scath  of  fire  and  strain  of  cord, 

How  ill  they  speed  who  give  dead  saints 

The  homage  due  their  living  lord  !  " 

They  bound  him  on  the  fearful  rack, 

When,  through  the  dungeon's  vaulted  dark, 

He  saw  the  light  of  shining  robes, 
And  knew  the  face  of  good  St.  Mark. 

Then  sank  the  iron  rack  apart, 

The  cords  released  their  cruel  clasp, 

The  pincers,  with  their  teeth  of  fire, 
Fell  broken  from  the  torturer's  grasp. 

And  lo  !  before  the  Youth  and  Saint, 
Barred  door  and  wall  of  stone  gave  way  ; 

And  up  from  bondage  and  the  night 
They  passed  to  freedom  and  the  day ! 


THE  LEGEND   OF  ST.  MARK  119 

O  dreaming  monk  !  thy  tale  is  true  ; 

O  painter  !  true  thy  pencil's  art ; 
In  tones  of  hope  and  prophecy, 

Ye  whisper  to  my  listening  heart ! 

Unheard  no  burdened  heart's  appeal 
Moans  up  to  God's  inclining  ear; 

Unheeded  by  his  tender  eye, 

Falls  to  the  earth  no  sufferer's  tear. 

For  still  the  Lord  alone  is  God  ! 

The  pomp  and  power  of  tyrant  man 
Are  scattered  at  his  lightest  breath, 

Like  chaff  before  the  winnower's  fan. 

Not  always  shall  the  slave  uplift 
His  heavy  hands  to  Heaven  in  vain. 

God's  angel,  like  the  good  St.  Mark, 
Comes  shining  down  to  break  his  chain ! 

O  weary  ones  !  ye  may  not  see 

Your  helpers  in  their  downward  flight ; 

Nor  hear  the  sound  of  silver  wings 

Slow  beating  through  the  hush  of  night ! 

But  not  the  less  gray  Dothan  shone, 
With  sunbright  watchers  bending  low, 

That  Fear's  dim  eye  beheld  alone 
The  spear-heads  of  the  Syrian  foe. 

There  are,  who,  like  the  Seer  of  old, 
Can  see  the  helpers  God  has  sent, 

And  how  life's  rugged  mountain-side 
Is  white  with  many  an  angel  tent ! 


120     NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

They  hear  the  heralds  whom  our  Lord 
Sends  down  his  pathway  to  prepare  ; 

And  light,  from  others  hidden,  shines 
On  their  high  place  of  faith  and  prayer. 

Let  such,  for  earth's  despairing  ones, 
Hopeless,  yet  longing  to  be  free, 

Breathe  once  again  the  Prophet's  prayer : 

"  Lord,  ope  their  eyes,  that  they  may  see  !  " 
1849. 

KATHLEEN. 

This  ballad  was  originally  published  in  my  prose  work,  Leaves 
from  Margaret  Smith's  Journal,  as  the  song  of  a  wandering  Mile- 
sian schoolmaster.  In  the  seventeenth  century,  slavery  in  the  New 
World  was  by  no  means  confined  to  the  natives  of  Africa.  Polit- 
ical offenders  and  criminals  were  transported  by  the  British  gov- 
ernment to  the  plantations  of  Barbadoes  and  Virginia,  where 
they  were  sold  like  cattle  in  the  market.  Kidnapping  of  free 
and  innocent  white  persons  was  practised  to  a  considerable  extent 
in  the  seaports  of  the  United  Kingdom. 

O  NORAH,  lay  your  basket  down, 

And  rest  your  weary  hand, 
And  come  and  hear  me  sing  a  song 

Of  our  old  Ireland. 

There  was  a  lord  of  Galaway, 

A  mighty  lord  was  he  ; 
And  he  did  wed  a  second  wife, 

A  maid  of  low  degree. 

But  he  was  old,  and  she  was  young, 

And  so,  in  evil  spite, 
She  baked  the  black  bread  for  his  kin, 

And  fed  her  own  with  white. 


KA  THLEEN  121 

She  whipped  the  maids  and  starved  the  kern, 

And  drove  away  the  poor ; 
"  Ah,  woe  is  me  !  "  the  old  lord  said, 
"  I  rue  my  bargain  sore  !  " 

This  lord  he  had  a  daughter  fair, 

Beloved  of  old  and  young, 
And  nightly  round  the  shealing-fires 

Of  her  the  gleeman  sung. 

"  As  sweet  and  good  is  young  Kathleen 

As  Eve  before  her  fall ;  " 

So  sang  the  harper  at  the  fair, 

So  harped  he  in  the  hall. 

"  Oh,  come  to  me,  my  daughter  dear  ! 

Come  sit  upon  my  knee, 
For  looking  in  your  face,  Kathleen, 
Your  mother's  own  I  see  !  " 

He  smoothed  and  smoothed  her  hair  away, 

He  kissed  her  forehead  fair  ; 
"  It  is  my  darling  Mary's  brow, 
It  is  my  darling's  hair  !  " 

Oh,  then  spake  up  the  angry  dame, 

"  Get  up,  get  up,"  quoth  she, 
"  I  '11  sell  ye  over  Ireland, 
I '11  seU  ye  o'er  the  sea!" 

She  clipped  her  glossy  hair  away, 
That  none  her  rank  might  know. 

She  took  away  her  gown  of  silk, 
And  gave  her  one  of  tow, 


122     NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

And  sent  her  down  to  Limerick  town 

And  to  a  seaman  sold 
This  daughter  of  an  Irish  lord 

For  ten  good  pounds  in  gold. 

The  lord  he  smote  upon  his  breast, 

And  tore  his  beard  so  gray; 
But  he  was  old,  and  she  was  young, 

And  so  she  had  her  way. 

Sure  that  same  night  the  Banshee  howled 

To  fright  the  evil  dame, 
And  fairy  folks,  who  loved  Kathleen, 

With  funeral  torches  came. 

She  watched  them  glancing  through  the  trees, 
And  glimmering  down  the  hill ; 

They  crept  before  the  dead-vault  door, 
And  there  they  all  stood  still ! 

"  Get  up,  old  man  !  the  wake-lights  shine  !  " 
"  Ye  murthering  witch,"  quoth  he, 

"  So  I  'm  rid  of  your  tongue,  I  little  care 
If  they  shine  for  you  or  me." 

"Oh,  whoso  brings  my  daughter  back, 

My  gold  and  land  shall  have  !  " 
Oh,  then  spake  up  his  handsome  page, 
"  No  gold  nor  land  I  crave ! 

"  But  give  to  me  your  daughter  dear, 

Give  sweet  Kathleen  to  me, 

Be  she  on  sea  or  be  she  on  land, 

I  '11  bring  her  back  to  thee." 


KA  THLEEN  123 

"  My  daughter  is  a  lady  born, 

And  you.  of  low  degree, 
But  she  shall  be  your  bride  the  day 
You  bring  her  back  to  me." 

He  sailed  east,  he  sailed  west, 

And  far  and  long  sailed  he, 
Until  he  came  to  Boston  town, 

Across  the  great  salt  sea. 

"  Oh,  have  ye  seen  the  young  Kathleen, 

The  flower  of  Ireland  ? 
Ye  '11  know  her  by  her  eyes  so  blue, 
And  by  her  snow-white  hand  I  " 

Out  spake  an  ancient  man,  "  I  know 

The  maiden  whom  ye  mean  ; 
I  bought  her  of  a  Limerick  man, 

And  she  is  called  Kathleen. 

"  No  skill  hath  she  in  household  work, 

Her  hands  are  soft  and  white, 
Yet  well  by  loving  looks  and  ways 
She  doth  her  cost  requite." 

So  up  they  walked  through  Boston  town, 

And  met  a  maiden  fair, 
A  little  basket  on  her  arm 

So  snowy-white  and  bare. 

"  Come  hither,  child,  and  say  hast  thou 

This  young  man  ever  seen  ?  " 
They  wept  within  each  other's  arms, 
The  page  and  young  Kathleen. 


124     NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

"  Oh  give  to  me  this  darling  child, 

And  take  my  purse  of  gold." 
"  Nay,  not  by  me,"  her  master  said, 

"  Shall  sweet  Kathleen  be  sold. 

"  We  loved  her  in  the  place  of  one 

The  Lord  hath  early  ta'en  ; 

But,  since  her  heart 's  in  Ireland, 

We  give  her  back  again !  " 

Oh,  for  that  same  the  saints  in  heaven 

For  his  poor  soul  shall  pray, 
And  Mary  Mother  wash  with  tears 

His  heresies  away. 

Sure  now  they  dwell  in  Ireland ; 

As  you  go  up  Claremore 
Ye  '11  see  their  castle  looking  down 

The  pleasant  Galway  shore. 

And  the  old  lord's  wife  is  dead  and  gone, 

And  a  happy  man  is  he, 
For  he  sits  beside  his  own  Kathleen, 

With  her  darling  on  his  knee. 

1849. 


THE  WELL  OF  LOCH  MAREE. 

Pennant,  in  his  Voyage  to  the  Hebrides,  describes  the  holy  well 
of  Loch  Maree,  the  waters  of  which  were  supposed  to  effect  a 
miraculous  cure  of  melancholy,  trouble,  and  insanity. 

CALM  on  the  breast  of  Loch  Maree 
A  little  isle  reposes ; 


THE    WELL   OF  LOCH  MAREE          125 

A  shadow  woven  of  the  oak 
And  willow  o'er  it  closes. 

Within,  a  Druid's  mound  is  seen, 

Set  round  with  stony  warders ; 
A  fountain,  gushing  through  the  turf, 

Flows  o'er  its  grassy  borders. 

And  whoso  bathes  therein  his  brow, 
With  care  or  madness  burning, 

Feels  once  again  his  healthful  thought 
And  sense  of  peace  returning. 

0  restless  heart  and  fevered  brain, 

Unquiet  and  unstable, 
That  holy  well  of  Loch  Maree 

Is  more  than  idle  fable  ! 

Life's  changes  vex,  its  discords  stun, 

Its  glaring  sunshine  blindeth, 
And  blest  is  he  who  on  his  way 

That  fount  of  healing  findeth  ! 

The  shadows  of  a  humbled  will 

And  contrite  heart  are  o'er  it ; 
Go  read  its  legend,  "  TRUST  IN  GOD," 

On  Faith's  white  stones  before  it. 
1850. 


126     NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 


THE  CHAPEL  OF  THE  HERMITS. 

The  incident  upon  which  this  poem  is  based  is  related  in  a  note 
to  Bernardin  Henri  Saint  Pierre's  Etudes  de  la  Nature. 

"We  arrived  at  the  habitation  of  the  Hermits  a  little  before 
they  sat  down  to  their  table,  and  while  they  were  still  at  church. 
J.  J.  Rousseau  proposed  to  me  to  offer  up  our  devotions.  The  her- 
mits were  reciting  the  Litanies  of  Providence,  which  are  remark- 
ably beautiful.  After  we  had  addressed  our  prayers  to  God,  and 
the  hermits  were  proceeding  to  the  refectory,  Rousseau  said  to 
me,  with  his  heart  overflowing,  '  At  this  moment  I  experience 
what  is  said  in  the  gospel :  Where  two  or  three  are  gathered  to- 
gether in  my  name,  there  am  I  in  the  midst  of  them.  There  is  here 
a  feeling  of  peace  and  happiness  which  penetrates  the  soul.' 
I  said,  '  If  Fe'nelon  had  lived,  you  would  have  been  a  Catholic.' 
He  exclaimed,  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  '  Oh,  if  F^nelon  were  alive, 
I  would  struggle  to  get  into  his  service,  even  as  a  lackey!  '  " 

In  my  sketch  of  Saint  Pierre,  it  will  be  seen  that  I  have  some- 
what antedated  the  period  of  his  old  age.  At  that  time  he  was 
not  probably  more  than  fifty.  In  describing  him,  I  have  by  no 
means  exaggerated  his  own  history  of  his  mental  condition  at  the 
period  of  the  story.  In  the  fragmentary  Sequel  to  his  Studies  of 
Nature,  he  thus  speaks  of  himself :  "  The  ingratitude  of  those 
of  whom  I  had  deserved  kindness,  unexpected  family  misfortunes, 
the  total  loss  of  my  small  patrimony  through  enterprises  solely 
undertaken  for  the  benefit  of  my  country,  the  debts  under  which 
I  lay  oppressed,  the  blasting  of  all  my  hopes,  —  these  combined 
calamities  made  dreadful  inroads  upon  my  health  and  reason. 
...  I  found  it  impossible  to  continue  in  a  room  where  there 
•was  company,  especially  if  the  doors  were  shut.  I  could  not 
even  cross  an  alley  in  a  public  garden,  if  several  persons  had  got 
together  in  it.  When  alone,  my  malady  subsided.  I  felt  myself 
likewise  at  ease  in  places  where  I  saw  children  only.  At  the 
sight  of  any  one  walking  up  to  the  place  where  I  was,  I  felt  my 
whole  frame  agitated,  and  retired.  I  often  said  to  myself,  '  My 
sole  study  has  been  to  merit  well  of  mankind ;  why  do  I  fear 
them?'" 

He  attributes  his  improved  health  of  mind  and  body  to  the 
counsels  of  his  friend,  J.  J.  Rousseau.  "  I  renounced,"  says  he, 
"my  books.  I  threw  my  eyes  upon  the  works  of  nature,  which 
spake  to  all  my  senses  a  language  which  neither  time  nor  nations 


THE  CHAPEL   OF   THE  HERMITS        127 

have  it  in  their  power  to  alter.  Thenceforth  my  histories  and 
my  journals  were  the  herbage  of  the  fields  and  meadows.  My 
thoughts  did  not  go  forth  painfully  after  them,  as  in  the  case  of 
human  systems ;  but  their  thoughts,  under  a  thousand  engaging 
forms,  quietly  sought  me.  In  these  I  studied,  without  effort,  the 
laws  of  that  Universal  Wisdom  which  had  surrounded  me  from 
the  cradle,  but  on  which  heretofore  I  had  bestowed  little  atten- 
tion." 

Speaking  of  Rousseau,  he  says :  "I  derived  inexpressible  satis- 
faction from  his  society.  What  I  prized  still  more  than  his  gen- 
ius was  his  probity.  He  was  one  of  the  few  literary  characters, 
tried  in  the  furnace  of  affliction,  to  whom  you  could,  with  perfect 
security,  confide  your  most  secret  thoughts.  .  .  .  Even  when  he 
deviated,  and  became  the  victim  of  himself  or  of  others,  he  could 
forget  his  own  misery  in  devotion  to  the  welfare  of  mankind.  He 
was  uniformly  the  advocate  of  the  miserable.  There  might  be 
inscribed  on  his  tomb  these  affecting  words  from  that  Book  of 
which  he  carried  always  about  him  some  select  passages,  during 
the  last  years  of  his  life :  His  sins,  which  are  many,  are  Jorgiven, 
for  he  loved  muck." 

"  I  DO  believe,  and  yet,  in  grief, 
I  pray  for  help  to  unbelief  ; 
For  needful  strength  aside  to  lay 
The  daily  cumberings  of  my  way. 

"  I  'm  sick  at  heart  of  craft  and  cant, 
Sick  of  the  crazed  enthusiast's  rant, 
Profession's  smooth  hypocrisies, 
And  creeds  of  iron,  and  lives  of  ease. 


"  I  ponder  o'er  the  sacred  word, 
I  read  the  record  of  our  Lord ; 
And,  weak  and  troubled,  envy  them 
Who  touched  His  seamless  garment's  hem ; 

"  Who  saw  the  tears  of  love  He  wept 
Above  the  grave  where  Lazarus  slept ; 


128     NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

And  heard,  amidst  the  shadows  dim 
Of  Olivet,  His  evening  hymn. 

"  How  blessed  the  swineherd's  low  estate, 
The  beggar  crouching  at  the  gate, 
The  leper  loathly  and  abhorred, 
Whose  eyes  of  flesh  beheld  the  Lord ! 

"  O  sacred  soil  His  sandals  pressed ! 
Sweet  fountains  of  His  noonday  rest  I 
O  light  and  air  of  Palestine, 
Impregnate  with  His  life  divine  ! 

"  Oh,  bear  me  thither  !     Let  me  look 
On  Siloa's  pool,  and  Kedron's  brook ; 
Kneel  at  Gethsemane,  and  by 
Gennesaret  walk,  before  I  die  ! 

"  Methinks  this  cold  and  northern  night 
Would  melt  before  that  Orient  light ; 
And,  wet  by  Hermon's  dew  and  rain, 
My  childhood's  faith  revive  again !  " 

So  spake  my  friend,  one  autumn  day, 
Where  the  still  river  slid  away 
Beneath  us,  and  above  the  brown 
Eed  curtains  of  the  woods  shut  down. 

Then  said  I,  —  for  I  could  not  brook 
The  mute  appealing  of  his  look,  — 
"  I,  too,  am  weak,  and  faith  is  small, 
And  blindness  happeneth  unto  all. 


THE   CHAPEL   OF  THE   HERMITS       129 

"  Yet,  sometimes  glimpses  on  my  sight, 
Through  present  wrong,  the  eternal  right ; 
And,  step  by  step,  since  time  began, 
I  see  the  steady  gain  of  man ; 

"  That  all  of  good  the  past  hath  had 
Remains  to  make  our  own  time  glad, 
Our  common  daily  life  divine, 
And  every  land  a  Palestine. 

"  Thou  weariest  of  thy  present  state ; 
What  gain  to  thee  time's  holiest  date? 
The  doubter  now  perchance  had  been 
As  High  Priest  or  as  Pilate  then ! 

"  What  thought  Chorazin's  scribes  ?  What  faith 
In  Him  had  Nain  and  Nazareth  ? 
Of  the  few  followers  whom  He  led 
One  sold  Him,  —  all  forsook  and  fled. 

"  O  friend  !  we  need  nor  rock  nor  sand, 
Nor  storied  stream  of  Morning-Land; 
The  heavens  are  glassed  in  Merrimac,  — 
What  more  could  Jordan  render  back  ? 

st  We  lack  but  open  eye  and  ear 
To  find  the  Orient's  marvels  here  ; 
The  still  small  voice  in  autumn's  hush, 
Yon  maple  wood  the  burning  bush. 

"  For  still  the  new  transcends  the  old, 
In  signs  and  tokens  manifold ; 
Slaves  rise  up  men  ;  the  olive  waves, 
With  roots  deep  set  in  battle  graves! 


130    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

"  Through  the  harsh  noises  of  our  day 
A  low,  sweet  prelude  finds  its  way  ; 
Through  clouds  of  doubt,  and  creeds  of  fear. 
A  light  is  breaking,  calm  and  clear. 

"  That  song  of  Love,  now  low  and  far, 
Erelong  shall  swell  from  star  to  star ! 
That  light,  the  breaking  day,  which  tips 
The  golden-spired  Apocalypse !  " 

Then,  when  my  good  friend  shook  his  head, 
And,  sighing,  sadly  smiled,  I  said : 
:'  Thou  mind'st  me  of  a  story  told 
In  rare  Bernardin's  leaves  of  gold." 

And  while  the  slanted  sunbeams  wove 
The  shadows  of  the  frost-stained  grove, 
And,  picturing  all,  the  river  ran 
O'er  cloud  and  wood,  I  thus  began :  — 


In  Mount  Valerien's  chestnut  wood 
The  Chapel  of  the  Hermits  stood  ; 
And  thither,  at  the  close  of  day, 
Came  two  old  pilgrims,  worn  and  gray. 

One,  whose  impetuous  youth  defied 
The  storms  of  Baikal's  wintry  side, 
And  mused  and  dreamed  where  tropic  day 
Flamed  o'er  his  lost  Virginia's  bay. 

His  simple  tale  of  love  and  woe 

All  hearts  had  melted,  high  or  low ;  — 


THE   CHAPEL   OF   THE  HERMITS      131 

A  blissful  pain,  a  sweet  distress, 
Immortal  in  its  tenderness. 

Yet,  while  above  his  charmed  page 
Beat  quick  the  young  heart  of  his  age, 
He  walked  amidst  the  crowd  unknown, 
A  sorrowing  old  man,  strange  and  lone. 

A  homeless,  troubled  age,  —  the  gray 
Pale  setting  of  a  weary  day  ; 
Too  dull  his  ear  for  voice  of  praise, 
Too  sadly  worn  his  brow  for  bays. 

Pride,  lust  of  power  and  glory,  slept ; 
Yet  still  his  heart  its  young  dream  kept, 
And,  wandering  like  the  deluge-dove, 
Still  sought  the  resting-place  of  love. 

And,  mateless,  childless,  envied  more 
The  peasant's  welcome  from  his  door 
By  smiling  eyes  at  eventide, 
Than  kingly  gifts  or  lettered  pride. 

Until,  in  place  of  wife  and  child, 
All-pitying  Nature  on  him  smiled, 
And  gave  to  him  the  golden  keys 
To  all  her  inmost  sanctities. 

Mild  Druid  of  her  wood-paths  dim ! 
She  laid  her  great  heart  bare  to  him, 
Its  loves  and  sweet  accords  ;  —  he  saw 
The  beauty  of  her  perfect  law. 


132    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

The  language  of  her  signs  he  knew, 
What  notes  her  cloudy  clarion  blew ; 
The  rhythm  of  autumn's  forest  dyes, 
The  hymn  of  sunset's  painted  skies. 

And  thus  he  seemed  to  hear  the  song 
Which  swept,  of  old,  the  stars  along ; 
And  to  his  eyes  the  earth  once  more 
Its  fresh  and  primal  beauty  wore. 

Who  sought  with  him,  from  summer  air, 
And  field  and  wood,  a  balm  for  care ; 
And  bathed  in  light  of  sunset  skies 
His  tortured  nerves  and  weary  eyes  ? 

His  fame  on  all  the  winds  had  flown ; 
His  words  had  shaken  crypt  and  throne  ; 
Like  fire,  on  camp  and  court  and  cell 
They  dropped,  and  kindled  as  they  fell. 

Beneath  the  pomps  of  state,  below 
The  mitred  juggler's  masque  and  show, 
A  prophecy,  a  vague  hope,  ran 
His  burning  thought  from  man  to  man, 

For  peace  or  rest  too  well  he  saw 
The  fraud  of  priests,  the  wrong  of  law, 
And  felt  how  hard,  between  the  two, 
Their  breath  of  pain  the  millions  drew. 

A  prophet-utterance,  strong  and  wild, 
The  weakness  of  an  unweaned  child, 
A  sun-bright  hope  for  human-kind, 
And  self -despair,  in  him  combined. 


THE  CHAPEL  OF  THE  HERMITS   133 

He  loathed  the  false,  yet  lived  not  true 
To  half  the  glorious  truths  he  knew ; 
The  doubt,  the  discord,  and  the  sin, 
He  mourned  without,  he  felt  within. 

Untrod  by  him  the  path  he  showed, 
Sweet  pictures  on  his  easel  glowed 
Of  simple  faith,  and  loves  of  home, 
And  virtue's  golden  days  to  come. 

But  weakness,  shame,  and  folly  made 
The  foil  to  all  his  pen  portrayed ; 
Still,  where  his  dreamy  splendors  shone, 
The  shadow  of  himself  was  thrown. 

Lord,  what  is  man,  whose  thought,  at  times, 
Up  to  Thy  sevenfold  brightness  climbs, 
While  still  his  grosser  instinct  clings 
To  earth,  like  other  creeping  things  ! 

So  rich  in  words,  in  acts  so  mean  ; 

So  high,  so  low ;  chance-swung  between 

The  foulness  of  the  penal  pit 

And  Truth's  clear  sky,  millennium-lit ! 

Vain,  pride  of  star-lent  genius  !  —  vain, 
Quick  fancy  and  creative  brain, 
Unblest  by  prayerful  sacrifice, 
Absurdly  great,  or  weakly  wise  ! 

Midst  yearnings  for  a  truer  life, 
Without  were  fears,  within  was  strife  ; 
And  still  his  wayward  act  denied 
The  perfect  good  for  which  he  sighed. 


134    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

The  love  he  sent  forth  void  returned  ; 

The  fame  that  crowned  him  scorched  and  burned, 

Burning,  yet  cold  and  drear  and  lone,  — 

A  fire-mount  in  a  frozen  zone ! 

Like  that  the  gray-haired  sea-king  passed,9 
Seen  southward  from  his  sleety  mast, 
About  whose  brows  of  changeless  frost 
A  wreath  of  flame  the  wild  winds  tossed. 

Far  round  the  mournful  beauty  played 
Of  lambent  light  and  purple  shade, 
Lost  on  the  fixed  and  dumb  despair 
Of  frozen  earth  and  sea  and  air  ! 

A  man  apart,  unknown,  unloved 
By  those  whose  wrongs  his  soul  had  moved, 
He  bore  the  ban  of  Church  and  State, 
The  good  man's  fear,  the  bigot's  hate  ! 

Forth  from  the  city's  noise  and  throng, 
Its  pomp  and  shame,  its  sin  and  wrong, 
The  twain  that  summer  day  had  strayed 
To  Mount  Valerien's  chestnut  shade. 

To  them  the  green  fields  and  the  wood 
Lent  something  of  their  quietude, 
And  golden-tinted  sunset  seemed 
Prophetical  of  all  they  dreamed. 

The  hermits  from  their  simple  cares 
The  bell  was  calling  home  to  prayers, 
And,  listening  to  its  sound,  the  twain 
Seemed  lapped  in  childhood's  trust  again. 


THE    CHAPEL    OF   THE  HERMITS      135 

Wide  open  stood  the  chapel  door  ; 

A  sweet  old  music,  swelling  o'er 

Low  prayerful  murmurs,  issued  thence,  — 

The  Litanies  of  Providence  ! 

Then  Rousseau  spake  :  "  Where  two  or  three 
In  His  name  meet,  He  there  will  be !  " 
And  then,  in  silence,  on  their  knees 
They  sank  beneath  the  chestnut-trees. 

As  to  the  blind  returning  light, 
As  daybreak  to  the  Arctic  night, 
Old  faith  revived  ;  the  doubts  of  years 
Dissolved  in  reverential  tears. 

That  gush  of  feeling  overpast, 
"  Ah  me  !  "  Bernardin  sighed  at  last, 
"  I  would  thy  bitterest  foes  could  see 

Thy  heart  as  it  is  seen  of  me  ! 

"  No  church  of  God  hast  thou  denied  ; 
Thou  hast  but  spurned  in  scorn  aside 
A  bare  and  hollow  counterfeit, 
Profaning  the  pure  name  of  it ! 

"  With  dry  dead  moss  and  marish  weeds 
His  fire  the  western  herdsman  feeds, 
And  greener  from  the  ashen  plain 
The  sweet  spring  grasses  rise  again. 

"  Nor  thunder-peal  nor  mighty  wind 
Disturb  the  solid  sky  behind ; 
And  through  the  cloud  the  red  bolt  rends 
The  calm,  still  smile  of  Heaven  descends  ! 


136    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

"  Thus  through  the  world,  like  bolt  and  blast, 
And  scourging  fire,  thy  words  have  passed. 
Clouds  break,  —  the  steadfast  heavens  remain ; 
Weeds  burn,  —  the  ashes  feed  the  grain  ! 

"  But  whoso  strives  with  wrong  may  find 
Its   touch  pollute,  its  darkness  blind ; 
And  learn,  as  latent  fraud  is  shown 
In  others'  faith,  to  doubt  his  own. 

"  With  dream  and  falsehood,  simple  trust 
And  pious  hope  we  tread  in  dust ; 
Lost  the  calm  faith  in  goodness,  —  lost 
The  baptism  of  the  Pentecost ! 

"  Alas  !  —  the  blows  for  error  meant 
Too  oft  on  truth  itself  are  spent, 
As  through  the  false  and  vile  and  base 
Looks  forth  her  sad,  rebuking  face. 

"  Not  ours  the  Theban's  charmed  life  ; 
We  come  not  scathless  from  the  strife ! 
The  Python's  coil  about  us  clings, 
The  trampled  Hydra  bites  and  stings  ! 

"  Meanwhile,  the  sport  of  seeming  chance, 
The  plastic  shapes  of  circumstance, 
What  might  have  been  we  fondly  guess, 
If  earlier  born,  or  tempted  less. 

"  And  thou,  in  these  wild,  troubled  days, 
Misjudged  alike  in  blame  and  praise, 
Unsought  and  undeserved  the  same 
The  skeptic's  praise,  the  bigot's  blame ;  — 


THE   CHAPEL   OF   THE  HERMITS      137 

"  I  cannot  doubt,  if  thou  hadst  been 
Among  the  highly  favored  men 
Who  walked  on  earth  with  Fenelon, 
He  would  have  owned  thee  as  his  son ; 

"  And,  bright  with  wings  of  cherubim 
Visibly  waving  over  him, 
Seen  through  his  life,  the  Church  had  seemed 
All  that  its  old  confessors  dreamed." 

"  I  would  have  been,"  Jean  Jaques  replied, 
"  The  humblest  servant  at  his  side, 

Obscure,  unknown,  content  to  see 

How  beautiful  man's  life  may  be ! 

"  Oh,  more  than  thrice-blest  relic,  more 
Than  solemn  rite  or  sacred  lore, 
The  holy  life  of  one  who  trod 
The  foot-marks  of  the  Christ  of  God! 

"  Amidst  a  blinded  world  he  saw 
The  oneness  of  the  Dual  law ; 
That  Heaven's  sweet  peace  on  Earth  began, 
And  God  was  loved  through  love  of  man. 

"  He  lived  the  Truth  which  reconciled 
The  strong  man  Reason,  Faith  the  child; 
In  him  belief  and  act  were  one, 
The  homilies  of  duty  done !  " 

So  speaking,  through  the  twilight  gray 
The  two  old  pilgrims  went  their  way. 
What  seeds  of  life  that  day  were  sown, 
The  heavenly  watchers  knew  alone. 


138    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

Time  passed,  and  Autumn  came  to  fold 
Green  Summer  in  her  brown  and  gold  ; 
Time  passed,  and  Winter's  tears  of  snow 
Dropped  on  the  grave-mound  of  Rousseau. 

"  The  tree  remaineth  where  it  fell, 
The  pained  on  earth  is  pained  in  hell ! " 
So  priestcraft  from  its  altars  cursed 
The  mournful  doubts  its  falsehood  nursed. 

Ah !  well  of  old  the  Psalmist  prayed, 
"  Thy  hand,  not  man's,  on  me  be  laid !  " 
Earth  frowns  below,  Heaven  weeps  above, 
And  man  is  hate,  but  God  is  love ! 

No  Hermits  now  the  wanderer  sees, 
Nor  chapel  with  its  chestnut-trees ; 
A  morning  dream,  a  tale  that 's  told, 
The  wave  of  change  o'er  all  has  rolled. 

Yet  lives  the  lesson  of  that  day  ; 
And  from  its  twilight  cool  and  gray 
Comes  up  a  low,  sad  whisper,  "  Make 
The  truth  thine  own,  for  truth's  own  sake. 

"  Why  wait  to  see  in  thy  brief  span 
Its  perfect  flower  and  fruit  in  man  ? 
No  saintly  touch  can  save  ;  no  balm 
Of  healing  hath  the  martyr's  palm. 

"  Midst  soulless  forms,  and  false  pretence 
Of  spiritual  pride  and  pampered  sense, 
A  voice  saith,  '  What  is  that  to  thee  ? 
Be  true  thyself,  and  follow  Me  ! ' 


THE   CHAPEL   OF  THE  HERMITS      139 

"  In  days  when  throne  and  altar  heard 
The  wanton's  wish,  the  bigot's  word, 
And  pomp  of  state  and  ritual  show 
Scarce  hid  the  loathsome  death  below,  — 

"  Midst  fawning  priests  and  courtiers  foul, 
The  losel  swarrn  of  crown  and  cowl, 
White-robed  walked  Francois  Fenelon, 
Stainless  as  Uriel  in  the  sun  ! 

"  Yet  in  his  time  the  stake  blazed  red, 
The  poor  were  eaten  up  like  bread : 
Men  knew  him  not ;  his  garment's  hem 
No  healing  virtue  had  for  them. 

"  Alas !  no  present  saint  we  find ; 
The  white  cymar  gleams  far  behind, 
Revealed  in  outline  vague,  sublime, 
Through  telescopic  mists  of  time  I 

"  Trust  not  in  man  with  passing  breath, 
But  in  the  Lord,  old  Scripture  saith ; 
The  truth  which  saves  thou  mayst  not  blend 
With  false  professor,  faithless  friend. 

"  Search  thine  own  heart.    What  paineth  thee 
In  others  in  thyself  may  be ; 
All  dust  is  frail,  all  flesh  is  weak  ; 
Be  thou  the  true  man  thou  dost  seek  1 

"  Where  now  with  pain  thou  treadest,  trod 
The  whitest  of  the  saints  of  God ! 
To  show  thee  where  their  feet  were  set, 
The  light  which  led  them  shineth  yet. 


140     NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

"  The  footprints  of  the  life  divine, 
Which  marked  their  path,  remain  in  thine ; 
And  that  great  Life,  transfused  in  theirs, 
Awaits  thy  faith,  thy  love,  thy  prayers  !  " 

A  lesson  which  I  well  may  heed, 
A  word  of  fitness  to  my  need  ; 
So  from  that  twilight  cool  and  gray 
Still  saith  a  voice,  or  seems  to  say. 


We  rose,  and  slowly  homeward  turned, 
While  down  the  west  the  sunset  burned  ; 
And,  in  its  light,  hill,  wood,  and  tide, 
And  human  forms  seemed  glorified. 

The  village  homes  transfigured  stood, 
And  purple  bluffs,  whose  belting  wood 
Across  the  waters  leaned  to  hold 
The  yellow  leaves  like  lamps  of  gold. 

Then  spake  my  friend  :  "  Thy  words  are  true  ; 
Forever  old,  forever  new, 
These  home-seen  splendors  are  the  same 
Which  over  Edeir's  sunsets  came. 

"  To  these  bowed  heavens  let  wood  and  hill 
Lift  voiceless  praise  and  anthem  still; 
Fall,  warm  with  blessing,  over  them, 
Light  of  the  New  Jerusalem  ! 

"  Flow  on,  sweet  river,  like  the  stream 
Of  John's  Apocalyptic  dream  ! 


TA  ULER  141 

This  mapled  ridge  shall  Horeb  be, 
Yon  green-banked  lake  our  Galilee ! 

"  Henceforth  my  heart  shall  sigh  no  more 
For  olden  time  and  holier  shore  ; 
God's  love  and  blessing,  then  and  theres 
Are  now  and  here  and  everywhere." 

1851. 


TAULER. 

TAULER,  the  preacher,  walked,  one  autumn  day, 
Without  the  walls  of  Strasburg,  by  the  Rhine, 
Pondering  the  solemn  Miracle  of  Life  ; 
As  one  who,  wandering  in  a  starless  night, 
Feels  momently  the  jar  of  unseen  waves, 
And  hears  the  thunder  of  an  unknown  sea, 
Breaking  along  an  uniinagined  shore. 

And  as  he  walked  he  prayed.     Even  the  same 
Old  prayer  with  which,  for  half  a  score  of  years, 
Morning,  and  noon,  and  evening,  lip  and  heart 
Had  groaned  :  "  Have  pity  upon  me,  Lord  ! 
Thou  seest,  while  teaching  others,  I  am  blind. 
Send  me  a  man  who  can  direct  my  steps  !  " 

Then,  as  he  mused,  he  heard  along  his  path 
A  sound  as  of  an  old  man's  staff  among 
The  dry,  dead  linden-leaves  ;  and,  looking  up, 
He  saw  a  stranger,  weak,  and  poor,  and  old. 

"  Peace  be  unto  thee,  father  !  "  Tauler  said, 
"  God  give  thee  a  good  day !  "    The  old  man  raised 


142     NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

Slowly  his  calm  blue  eyes.     "  I  thank  thee,  son ; 
But  all  my  days  are  good,  and  none  are  ill." 

Wondering  thereat,  the  preacher  spake  again, 
"  God  give  thee  happy  life."    The  old  man  smiled, 
"  I  never  am  unhappy." 

Tauler  laid 

His  hand  upon  the  stranger's  coarse  gray  sleeve : 
"  Tell  me,  O  father,  what  thy  strange  words  mean. 
Surely  man's  days  are  evil,  and  his  life 
Sad  as  the  grave  it  leads  to."     "  Nay,  my  son, 
Our  times  are  in  God's  hands,  and  all  our  days 
Are  as  our  needs ;  for  shadow  as  for  sun, 
For  cold  as  heat,  for  want  as  wealth,  alike 
Our  thanks  are  due,  since  that  is  best  which  is ; 
And  that  which  is  not,  sharing  not  His  life, 
Is  evil  only  as  devoid  of  good. 
And  for  the  happiness  of  which  I  spake, 
I  find  it  in  submission  to  his  will, 
And  calm  trust  in  the  holy  Trinity 
Of  Knowledge,  Goodness,  and  Almighty  Power." 

Silently  wondering,  for  a  little  space, 
Stood  the  great  preacher ;  then  he  spake  as  one 
Who,  suddenly  grappling  with  a  haunting  thought 
Which  long  has  followed,  whispering  through  the 

dark 

Strange  terrors,  drags  it,  shrieking,  into  light : 
"  What  if  God's  will  consign  thee  hence  to  Hell  ?  " 

"  Then,"  said  the  stranger,  cheerily,  "  be  it  so. 
What  Hell  may  be  I  know  not ;  this  I  know,  — 


TAULER  143 

I  cannot  lose  the  presence  of  the  Lord. 

One  arm,  Humility,  takes  hold  upon 

His  dear  Humanity ;  the  other,  Love, 

Clasps  his  Divinity.     So  where  I  go 

He  goes  ;  and  better  fire-walled  Hell  with  Him 

Than  golden-gated  Paradise  without." 

Tears  sprang  in  Tauler's  eyes.     A  sudden  light, 
Like  the  first  ray  which  fell  on  chaos,  clove 
Apart  the  shadow  wherein  he  had  walked 
Darkly  at  noon.     And,  as  the  strange  old  man 
Went  his  slow  way,  until  his  silver  hair 
Set  like  the  white  moon  where  the  hills  of  vine 
Slope  to  the  Rhine,  he  bowed  his  head  and  said  : 
"  My  prayer  is  answered.     God  hath  sent  the  man 
Long  sought,  to  teach  me,  by  his  simple  trust, 
Wisdom  the  weary  schoolmen  never  knew." 

So,  entering  with  a  changed  and  cheerful  step 
The  city  gates,  he  saw,  far  down  the  street, 
A  mighty  shadow  break  the  light  of  noon, 
Which  tracing  backward  till  its  airy  lines 
Hardened  to  stony  plinths,  he  raised  his  eyes 
O'er  broad  facade  and  lofty  pediment, 
O'er  architrave  and  frieze  and  sainted  niche, 
Up  the  stone  lace-work  chiselled  by  the  wise 
Erwin  of  Steinbach,  dizzily  up  to  where 
In  the  noon-brightness  the  great  Minster's  tower, 
Jewelled  with  sunbeams  on  its  mural  crown, 
Rose  like  a  visible  prayer.     "  Behold  !  "  he  said, 
"  The  stranger's  faith  made  plain  before  mine  eyes. 
As  yonder  tower  outstretches  to  the  earth 
The  dark  triangle  of  its  shade  alone 


144  NARRA  TIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

When  the  clear  day  is  shining  on  its  top, 
So,  darkness  in  the  pathway  of  Man's  life 
Is  but  the  shadow  of  God's  providence, 
By  the  great  Sun  of  Wisdom  cast  thereon ; 
And  what  is  dark  below  is  light  in  Heaven." 
1853. 


THE  HERMIT  OF  THE  THEBAID. 

O  STRONG,  upwelling  prayers  of  faith, 
From  inmost  founts  of  life  ye  start,  — 

The  spirit's  pulse,  the  vital  breath 
Of  soul  and  heart ! 

From  pastoral  toil,  from  traffic's  din, 
Alone,  in  crowds,  at  home,  abroad, 

Unheard  of  man,  ye  enter  in 
The  ear  of  God. 

Ye  brook  no  forced  and  measured  tasks, 
Nor  weary  rote,  nor  formal  chains  ; 

The  simple  heart,  that  freely  asks 
In  love,  obtains. 

For  man  the  living  temple  is : 
The  mercy-seat  and  cherubim, 

And  all  the  holy  mysteries, 
He  bears  with  him. 

And  most  avails  the  prayer  of  love, 

Which,  wordless,  shapes  itself  in  needs, 

And  wearies  Heaven  for  naught  above 
Our  common  needs. 


THE  HERMIT  OF  THE   THEBA1D       145 

Which  brings  to  God's  all-perfect  will 
That  trust  of  His  uncloubting  child 

Whereby  all  seeming  good  and  ill 
Are  reconciled. 

And,  seeking  not  for  special  signs 

Of  favor,  is  content  to  fall 
Within  the  providence  which  shines 

And  rains  on  all. 

Alone,  the  Thebaid  hermit  leaned 
At  noontime  o'er  the  sacred  word. 

Was  it  an  angel  or  a  fiend 
Whose  voice  he  heard  ? 

It  broke  the  desert's  hush  of  awe, 
A  human  utterance,  sweet  and  mild ; 

And,  looking  up,  the  hermit  saw 
A  little  child. 

A  child,  with  wonder-widened  eyes, 
O'erawed  and  troubled  by  the  sight 

Of  hot,  red  sands,  and  brazen  skies, 
And  anchorite. 

"  What  dost  thou  here,  poor  man  ?     No  shade 
Of  cool,  green  palms,  nor  grass,  nor  well, 
Nor  corn,  nor  vines."      The  hermit  said : 
"With  God  I  dwell. 

"  Alone  with  Him  in  this  great  calm, 
I  live  not  by  the  outward  sense  ; 
My  Nile  his  love,  my  sheltering  palm 
His  providence." 


146     NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

The  child  gazed  round  him.     "  Does  God  live 
Here  only  ?  —  where  the  desert's  rim 

Is  green  with  corn,  at  morn  and  eve, 
We  pray  to  Him. 

"  My  brother  tills  beside  the  Nile 

His  little  field ;  beneath  the  leaves 
My  sisters  sit  and  spin,  the  while 
My  mother  weaves. 

*'  And  when  the  millet's  ripe  heads  fall, 
And  all  the  bean-field  hangs  in  pod, 
My  mother  smiles,  and  says  that  all 
Are  gifts  from  God. 

"  And  when  to  share  our  evening  meal, 
She  calls  the  stranger  at  the  door, 
She  says  God  fills  the  hands  that  deal 
Food  to  the  poor." 

Adown  the  hermit's  wasted  cheeks 

Glistened  the  flow  of  human  tears ; 
'*  Dear  Lord  !  "  he  said,  "  Thy  angel  speaks, 
Thy  servant  hears." 

Within  his  arms  the  child  he  took, 

And  thought  of  home  and  life  with  men  ; 

And  all  his  pilgrim  feet  forsook 
Returned  again. 

The  palmy  shadows  cool  and  long, 

The  eyes  that  smiled  through  lavish  locks, 

Home's  cradle-hymn  and  harvest-song, 
And  bleat  of  flocks. 


THE  HERMIT  OF   THE    THE  RAID      147 

;  O  child !  "  he  said,  "  thou  teachest  me 
There  is  no  place  where  God  is  not ; 
That  love  will  make,  where'er  it  be, 
A  holy  spot." 

He  rose  from  off  the  desert  sand, 
And,  leaning  on  his  staff  of  thorn, 

Went  with  the  young  child  hand  in  hand. 
Like  night  with  morn. 

They  crossed  the  desert's  burning  line, 
And  heard  the  palm-tree's  rustling  fan, 

The  Nile-bird's  cry,  the  low  of  kine, 
And  voice  of  man. 

Unquestioning,  his  childish  guide 
He  followed,  as  the  small  hand  led 

To  where  a  woman,  gentle-eyed, 
Her  distaff  fed. 

She  rose,  she  clasped  her  truant  boy, 
She  thanked  the  stranger  with  her  eyes  ; 

The  hermit  gazed  in  doubt  and  joy 
And  dumb  surprise. 

And  lo  !  —  with  sudden  warmth  and  light 
A  tender  memory  thrilled  his  frame  ; 

New-born,  the  world-lost  anchorite 
A  man  became. 

O  sister  of  El  Zara's  race, 

Behold  me  !  —  had  we  not  one  mother  ?  " 
She  gazed  into  the  stranger's  face  : 

"  Thou  art  my  brother  !  " 


148     NARRA  TIVE  AND  LEGEND  A  R  Y  POEMS 

"  O  kin  of  blood !     Thy  life  of  use 

And  patient  trust  is  more  than  mine ; 
And  wiser  than  the  gray  recluse 
This  child  of  thine. 

"  For,  taught  of  him  whom  God  hath  sent, 
That  toil  is  praise,  and  love  is  prayer, 
I  come,  life's  cares  and  pains  content 
With  thee  to  share." 

Even  as  his  foot  the  threshold  crossed, 
The  hermit's  better  life  began ; 

Its  holiest  saint  the  Thebaid  lost, 
And  found  a  man  ! 

1854. 


MAUD  MULLER. 

The  recollection  of  some  descendants  of  a  Hessian  deserter  in 
the  Revolutionar  •  'war  bearing  the  name  of  Muller  doubtless  sug- 
gested the  somewhat  infelicitous  title  of  a  New  England  idyl. 
The  poem  had  no  real  foundation  in  fact,  though  a  hint  of  it  may 
have  been  found  in  recalling  an  incident,  trivial  in  itself,  of  a 
journey  on  the  picturesque  Maine  seaboard  with  my  sister  some 
years  before  it  was  written.  We  had  stopped  to  rest  our  tired 
horse  under  the  shade  of  an  apple-tree,  and  refresh  him  with 
water  from  a  little  brook  which  rippled  through  the  stone  wall 
across  the  road.  A  very  beautiful  young  girl  in  scantest  summer 
attire  was  at  work  in  the  hay-field,  and  as  we  talked  with  her  we 
noticed  that  she  strove  to  hide  her  bare  feet  by  raking  hay  over 
them,  blushing  as  she  did  so,  through  the  tan  of  her  cheek  and 
neck. 

MAUD  MULLER  on  a  summer's  day, 
Raked  the  meadow  sweet  with  hay. 


MAUD  MULLER  149 

Beneath  her  torn  hat  glowed  the  wealth 
Of  simple  beauty  and  rustic  health. 

Singing,  she  wrought,  and  her  merry  glee 
The  mock-bird  echoed  from  his  tree. 

But  when  she  glanced  to  the  far-off  town, 
White  from  its  hill-slope  looking  down, 

The  sweet  song  died,  and  a  vague  unrest 
And  a  nameless  longing  filled  her  breast,  — 

A  wish,  that  she  hardly  dared  to  own, 
For  something  better  than  she  had  known. 

The  Judge  rode  slowly  down  the  lane, 
Smoothing  his  horse's  chestnut  mane. 

He  drew  his  bridle  in  the  shade 

Of  the  apple-trees,  to  greet  the  maid, 

And  asked  a  draught  from  the  spring  that  flowed 
Through  the  meadow  across  the  road. 

She  stooped  where  the  cool  spring  bubbled  up, 
And  filled  for  him  her  small  tin  cup, 

And  blushed  as  she  gave  it,  looking  down 
On  her  feet  so  bare,  and  her  tattered  gown. 

"  Thanks !  "  said  the  Judge  ;  "  a  sweeter  draught 
From  a  fairer  hand  was  never  quaffed." 


150     NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

He  spoke  of  the  grass  and  flowers  and  trees, 
Of  the  singing  birds  and  the  humming  bees ; 

Then  talked  of  the  haying,  and  wondered  whether 
The  cloud  in  the  west  would  bring  foul  weather. 

And  Maud  forgot  her  brier-torn  gown, 
And  her  graceful  ankles  bare  and  brown ; 

And  listened,  while  a  pleased  surprise 
Looked  from  her  long-lashed  hazel  eyes. 

At  last,  like  one  who  for  delay 
Seeks  a  vain  excuse,  he  rode  away. 

Maud  Muller  looked  and  sighed  :  "  Ah  me  ! 
That  I  the  Judge's  bride  might  be  ! 

"  He  would  dress  me  up  in  silks  so  fine, 
And  praise  and  toast  me  at  his  wine. 

"  My  father  should  wear  a  broadcloth  coat ; 
My  brother  should  sail  a  painted  boat. 

"  I  'd  dress  my  mother  so  grand  and  gay, 
And  the  baby  should  have  a  new  toy  each  day. 

"  And  I  'd  feed  the  hungry  and  clothe  the  poor, 
And  all  should  bless  me  who  left  our  door." 

The  Judge  looked  back  as  he  climbed  the  hill, 
And  saw  Maud  Muller  standing  still. 


MaudMuller 


T&. 


MAUD  MULLER  151 

A  form  more  fair,  a  face  more  sweet, 
Ne'er  hath  it  been  my  lot  to  meet. 

•'  And  her  modest  answer  and  graceful  air 
Show  her  wise  and  good  as  she  is  fair. 

'  Would  she  were  mine,  and  I  to-day, 
Like  her,  a  harvester  of  hay  ; 

'  No  doubtful  balance  of  rights  and  wrongs, 
Nor  weary  lawyers  with  endless  tongues, 

"  But  low  of  cattle  and  song  of  birds, 
And  health  and  quiet  and  loving  words." 

But  he  thought  of  his  sisters,  proud  and  cold, 
And  his  mother,  vain  of  her  rank  and  gold. 

So,  closing  his  heart,  the  Judge  rode  on, 
And  Maud  was  left  in  the  field  alone. 

But  the  lawyers  smiled  that  afternoon, 
When  he  hummed  in  court  an  old  love-tune ; 

And  the  young  girl  mused  beside  the  well 
Till  the  rain  on  the  unraked  clover  fell. 

He  wedded  a  wife  of  richest  dower, 
Who  lived  for  fashion,  as  he  for  power. 

Yet  oft,  in  his  marble  hearth's  bright  glow, 
He  watched  a  picture  come  and  go ; 


152      NA  ERA  TI VE  A  ND  LEGEND  A  R  Y  POEMS 

And  sweet  Maud  Muller's  hazel  eyes 
Looked  out  in  their  innocent  surprise. 

Oft,  when  the  wine  in  his  glass  was  red, 
He  longed  for  the  wayside  well  instead  ; 

And  closed  his  eyes  on  his  garnished  rooms 
To  dreani  of  meadows  and  clover-blooms. 

And  the  proud  man  sighed,  with  a  secret  pain, 
"  Ah,  that  I  were  free  again ! 

"  Free  as  when  I  rode  that  day, 
Where  the  barefoot  maiden  raked  her  hay." 

She  wedded  a  man  unlearned  and  poor, 
And  many  children  played  round  her  door. 

But  care  and  sorrow,  and  childbirth  pain, 
Left  their  traces  on  heart  and  brain. 

And  oft,  when  the  summer  sun  shone  hot 
On  the  new-mown  hay  in  the  meadow  lot, 

And  she  heard  the  little  spring  brook  fall 
Over  the  roadside,  through  the  wall, 

In  the  shade  of  the  apple-tree  again 
She  saw  a  rider  draw  his  rein. 

And,  gazing  down  with  timid  grace, 
She  felt  his  pleased  eyes  read  her  face. 


MAUD  MULLER  153 

Sometimes  her  narrow  kitchen  walls 
Stretched  away  into  stately  halls ; 

The  weary  wheel  to  a  spinnet  turned, 
The  tallow  candle  an  astral  burned, 

And  for  him  who  sat  by  the  chimney  lug, 
Dozing  and  grumbling  o'er  pipe  and  mug, 

A  manly  form  at  her  side  she  saw, 
And  joy  was  duty  and  love  was  law. 

Then  she  took  up  her  burden  of  life  again, 
Saying  only,  "  It  might  have  been." 

Alas  for  maiden,  alas  for  Judge, 

For  rich  repiner  and  household  drudge  ! 

God  pity  them  both  !  and  pity  us  all, 
Who  vainly  the  dreams  of  youth  recall. 

For  of  all  sad  words  of  tongue  or  pen, 

The  saddest  are  these  :  "It  might  have  been !  " 

Ah,  well !  for  us  all  some  sweet  hope  lies 
Deeply  buried  from  human  eyes ; 

And,  in  the  hereafter,  angels  may 
Roll  the  stone  from  its  grave  away  ! 
1854. 


154     NA  RRA  TI VE  A  ND  LEGEND  A  R  Y  POEMS 


MARY  GARVIN. 

FROM  the  heart  of  Waumbek  Methna,  from  the 
lake  that  never  fails, 

Falls  the  Saco  in  the  green  lap  of  Conway's  inter- 
vales ; 

There,  in  wild  and  virgin  freshness,  its  waters 
foam  and  flowr 

As  when  Darby  Field  first  saw  them,  two  hundred 
years  ago. 

But,  vexed  in  all  its  seaward  course  with  bridges, 
dams,  and  mills, 

How  changed  is  Saco's  stream,  how  lost  its  free- 
dom of  the  hills, 

Since  travelled  Jocelyn,  factor  Vines,  and  stately 
Champernoon 

Heard  on  its  banks  the  gray  wolf's  howl,  the  trum- 
pet of  the  loon  ! 

With  smoking  axle  hot  with  speed,  with  steeds  of 
fire  and  steam, 

Wide-waked  To-day  leaves  Yesterday  behind  him 
like  a  dream. 

Still,  from  the  hurrying  train  of  Life,  fly  back- 
ward far  and  fast 

The  milestones  of  the  fathers,  the  landmarks  of 
the  past. 

But  human  hearts  remain  unchanged  :  the  sorrow 

and  the  sin, 
The  loves  and  hopes  and  fears  of  old,  are  to  our 

own  akin ; 


MAR Y  GARVIN  155 

And  if,  in  tales  our  fathers  told,  the  songs  our 

mothers  sung, 
Tradition  wears  a  snowy  beard,  Romance  is  always 

young. 

O  sharp-lined  man  of  traffic,  on  Saco's  banks  to- 
day ! 

O  mill-girl  watching  late  and  long  the  shuttle's 
restless  play ! 

Let,  for  the  once,  a  listening  ear  the  working  hand 
beguile, 

And  lend  my  old  Provincial  tale,  as  suits,  a  tear  or 
smile! 


The  evening  gun   had   sounded   from  gray   Fort 

Mary's  walls ; 
Through  the  forest,  like  a  wild  beast,  roared  and 

plunged  the  Saco's  falls. 

And  westward  on  the  sea-wind,  that  damp  and 
gusty  grew, 

Over  cedars  darkening  inland  the  smokes  of  Spur- 
wink  blew. 

On  the  hearth  of  Farmer  Garvin,  blazed  the  crack- 
ling walnut  log  ; 

Right  and  left  sat  dame  and  goodman,  and  between 
them  lay  the  dog, 

Head  on  paws,  and  tail  slow  wagging,  and  beside 

him  on  her  mat, 
Sitting  drowsy  in  the  firelight,  winked  and  purred 

the  mottled  cat. 


156      NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

"  Twenty  years !  "  said  Goodman  Garvin,  speaking 

sadly,  under  breath, 
And  his  gray  head  slowly  shaking,  as   one  who 

speaks  of  death. 

The  goodwife  dropped  her  needles :   "  It  is  twenty 

years  to-day, 
Since  the  Indians  fell  on  Saco,  and  stole  our  child 

away." 

Then   they   sank  into  the  silence,  for  each  knew 

the  other's  thought, 
Of  a  great  and  common  sorrow,  and  words  were 

needed  not. 

"Who  knocks?"    cried   Goodman   Garvin.     The 

door  was  open  thrown ; 
On  two  strangers,  man  and  maiden,  cloaked  and 

furred,  the  fire-light  shone. 

One  with  courteous  gesture   lifted  the   bear-skin 

from  his  head  ; 
"  Lives  here  Elkanah  Garvin  ?  "     "I  am  he,"  the 

goodman  said. 

"  Sit  ye  down,  and  dry  and  warm  ye,  for  the  night 

is  chill  with  rain." 
And  the   goodwife  drew  the  settle,  and  stirred  the 

fire  amain. 

The  maid  unclasped  her  cloak-hood,  the  firelight 

glistened  fair 
In  her  large,  moist  eyes,  and  over  soft  folds  of 

dark  brown  hair. 


MARY   GARVIN  157 

Dame  Garvin  looked  upon  her  :  "  It  is  Mary's  self 

I  see! 
Dear  heart !  "  she  cried,  "  now  tell  me,  has  my 

child  come  back  to  me  ?  " 

"  My  name  indeed  is  Mary,"  said  the  stranger  sob- 
bing wild ; 

"  Will  you  be  to  me  a  mother  ?  I  am  Mary  Gar- 
vin's  child ! 

"  She  sleeps  by  wooded  Simcoe,  but  on  her  dying 

day 
She  bade  my  father  take  me  to  her  kinsfolk  far 

away. 

"  And  when  the  priest  besought  her  to  do  me  no 

such  wrong, 
She  said,  '  May  God  forgive  me !     I  have  closed 

my  heart  too  long. 

" '  When  I  hid  me  from  my  father,  and  shut  out 

my  mother's  call, 
I  sinned  against  those  dear  ones,  and  the  Father 

of  us  all. 

" '  Christ's  love  rebukes  no  home-love,  breaks  no 

tie  of  kin  apart ; 
Better  heresy  in  doctrine,  than  heresy  of  heart. 

"  '  Tell  me  not  the  Church  must  censure  :  she  who 

wept  the  Cross  beside 
Never  made  her  own  flesh  strangers,  nor  the  claims 

of  blood  denied ; 


158     NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

" '  And  if  she  who  wronged  her  parents,  with  her 

child  atones  to  them, 
Earthly  daughter,  Heavenly  Mother  !  thou  at  least 

wilt  not  condemn ! ' 

"  So,  upon  her  death-bed  lying,  my  blessed  mother 

spake ; 
As  we  come  to  do  her  bidding,  so  receive  us  for  her 

sake." 

"  God  be  praised  !  "  said  Goodwife  Garvin,  "  He 

taketh,  and  He  gives ; 
He  woundeth,  but  He  healeth ;  in  her  child  our 

daughter  lives !  " 

"  Amen !  "  the  old  man  answered,  as  he  brushed  a 
tear  away, 

And,  kneeling  by  his  hearthstone,  said,  with  rever- 
ence, "  Let  us  pray." 

All  its  Oriental   symbols,  and  its   Hebrew   para- 


Warm  with  earnest  life  and  feeling,  rose  his  prayer 
of  love  and  praise. 

But  he  started  at  beholding,  as  he  rose  from  off 

his  knee, 
The  stranger  cross  his  forehead  with  the  sign  of 

Papistrie. 

"  What  is  this  ?  "  cried  Farmer  Garvin.     "  Is  an 

English  Christian's  home 
A  chapel  or  a  mass-house,  that  you  make  the  sign 

of  Rome?" 


MAR Y  GARVIN  1£9 

Then  the  young  girl  knelt  beside  him,  kissed  his 

trembling  hand,  and  cried  : 
"  Oh,  forbear  to  chide  my  father  ;  in  that  faith  my 

mother  died ! 

"On  her  wooden  cross  at  Simcoe  the  dews  and 

sunshine  fall, 
As  they  fall  on  Spurwink's  graveyard ;  and   the 

dear  God  watches  all !  " 

The  old  man  stroked  the  fair  head  that  rested  on 

his  knee  ; 
"  Your  words,  dear  child,"  he  answered,  "  are  God's 

rebuke  to  me. 

"  Creed  and   rite   perchance   may  differ,  yet  our 

faith  and  hope  be  one. 
Let  me  be  your  father's  father,  let  him  be  to  me 


When  the  horn,  on  Sabbath  morning,  through  the 

still  and  frosty  air, 
From  Spurwink,  Pool,  and  Black  Point,  called  to 

sermon  and  to  prayer, 

To  the  goodly  house  of  worship,  where,  in  order 

due  and  fit, 
As  by  public  vote  directed,  classed  and  ranked  the 

people  sit ; 

Mistress  first  and   goodwife  after,  clerkly  squire 

before  the  clown, 
From  the  brave  coat,  lace-embroidered,  to  the  gray 

frock,  shading  down  ; 


160      NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

From  the  pulpit  read  the  preacher,     "  Goodman 

Garvin  and  his  wife 
Fain  would  thank  the  Lord,  whose  kindness  has 

followed  them  through  life, 

"For  the  great  and  crowning  mercy,  that   their 

daughter,  from  the  wild, 
Where  she  rests   (they  hope  in  God's  peace),  has 

sent  to  them  her  child  ; 

"  And  the  prayers  of  all  God's  people  they  ask, 

that  they  may  prove 
Not  unworthy,   through   their  weakness,  of   such 

special  proof  of  love." 

As  the  preacher  prayed,  uprising,  the  aged  couple 
stood, 

And  the  fair  Canadian  also,  in  her  modest  maiden- 
hood. 

Thought  the  elders,  grave  and  doubting,  "  She  is 

Papist  born  and  bred  ;  " 
Thought  the  young  men,  "  'T  is  an  angel  in  Mary 

Garvin's  stead !  " 
1856. 


THE  EANGER. 

Originally  published  as  Martha   Mason ;    a   Song  of  the   Old 
French  War. 

ROBERT  RAWLIN  !  —  Frosts  were  falling 
When  the  ranger's  horn  was  calling 
Through  the  woods  to  Canada. 


THE  RANGER  161 

Gone  the  winter's  sleet  and  snowing, 
Gone  the  spring-time's  bud  and  blowing, 
Gone  the  summer's  harvest  mowing, 

And  again  the  fields  are  gray. 

Yet  away,  he 's  away ! 
Faint  and  fainter  hope  is  growing 

In  the  hearts  that  mourn  his  stay. 

Where  the  lion,  crouching  high  on 
Abraham's  rock  with  teeth  of  iron, 

Glares  o'er  wood  and  wave  away, 
Faintly  thence,  as  pines  far  sighing, 
Or  as  thunder  spent  and  dying, 
Come  the  challenge  and  replying, 

Come  the  sounds  of  flight  and  fray. 

Well-a-day  !     Hope  and  pray  ! 
Some  are  living,  some  are  lying 

In  their  red  graves  far  away. 

Straggling  rangers,  worn  with  dangers, 
Homeward  faring,  weary  strangers 

Pass  the  farm-gate  on  their  way  ; 
Tidings  of  the  dead  and  living, 
Forest  march  and  ambush,  giving, 
Till  the  maidens  leave  their  weaving, 

And  the  lads  forget  their  play. 

"  Still  away,  still  away  !  " 
Sighs  a  sad  one,  sick  with  grieving, 

"  Why  does  Robert  still  delay  !  " 

Nowhere  fairer,  sweeter,  rarer, 
Does  the  golden-locked  fruit  bearer 
Through  his  painted  woodlands  stray, 


162     NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

Than  where  hillside  oaks  and  beeches 
Overlook  the  long,  blue  rea,ches, 
Silver  coves  and  pebbled  beaches, 

And  green  isles  of  Casco  Bay  ; 

Nowhere  day,  for  delay, 
With  a  tenderer  look  beseeches, 

"  Let  me  with  my  charmed  earth  stay." 

On  the  grain-lands  of  the  mainlands 
Stands  the  serried  corn  like  train-bands, 

Plume  and  pennon  rustling  gay ; 
Out  at  sea,  the  islands  wooded, 
Silver  birches,  golden-hooded, 
Set  with  maples,  crimson-blooded, 

White  sea-foam  and  sand-hills  gray, 

Stretch  away,  far  away. 
Dim  and  dreamy,  over-brooded 

By  the  hazy  autumn  day. 

Gayly  chattering  to  the  clattering 

Of  the  brown  nuts  downward  pattering. 

Leap  the  squirrels,  red  and  gray. 
On  the  grass-land,  on  the  fallow, 
Drop  the  apples,  red  and  yellow  ; 
Drop  the  russet  pears  and  mellow, 

Drop  the  red  leaves  all  the  day. 

And  away,  swift  away, 
Sun  and  cloud,  o'er  hill  and  hollow 

Chasing,  weave  their  web  of  play. 

"  Martha  Mason,  Martha  Mason, 
Prithee  tell  us  of  the  reason 

Why  you  mope  at  home  to-day  : 


THE  RANGER  163 

Surely  smiling  is  not  sinning ; 

Leave  your  quilling,  leave  your  spinning  j 

What  is  all  your  store  of  linen, 

If  your  heart  is  never  gay  ? 

Come  away,  come  away  ! 
Never  yet  did  sad  beginning 

Make  the  task  of  life  a  play." 

Overbending,  till  she 's  blending 
With  the  flaxen  skein  she  's  tending 

Pale  brown  tresses  smoothed  away 
From  her  face  of  patient  sorrow, 
Sits  she,  seeking  but  to  borrow, 
From  the  trembling  hope  of  morrow, 

Solace  for  the  weary  day. 

"  Go  your  way,  laugh  and  play ; 
Unto  Him  who  heeds  the  sparrow 

And  the  lily,  let  me  pray." 

"  With  our  rally,  rings  the  valley,  — 
Join  us  ! "  cried  the  blue-eyed  Nelly  ; 

"  Join  us  !  "  cried  the  laughing  May, 
"  To  the  beach  we  all  are  going, 
And,  to  save  the  task  of  rowing, 
West  by  north  the  wind  is  blowing, 

Blowing  briskly  down  the  bay ! 

Come  away,  come  away  ! 
Time  and  tide  are  swiftly  flowing, 

Let  us  take  them  while  we  may ! 

"  Never  tell  us  that  you  '11  fail  us, 
Where  the  purple  beach-plum  mellows 
On  the  bluffs  so  wild  and  gray. 


164    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

Hasten,  for  the  oars  are  falling  ; 
Hark,  our  merry  mates  are  calling ; 
Time  it  is  that  we  were  all  in, 

Singing  tideward  down  the  bay  !  " 

"  Nay,  nay,  let  me  stay ; 
Sore  and  sad  for  Robert  Rawlin 

Is  my  heart,"  she  said,  "  to-day." 

"  Vain  your  calling  for  Rob  Rawlin ! 
Some  red  squaw  his  moose-meat 's  broiling, 

Or  some  French  lass,  singing  gay ; 
Just  forget  as  he  's  forgetting ; 
What  avails  a  life  of  fretting  ? 
If  some  stars  must  needs  be  setting, 

Others  rise  as  good  as  they." 

"  Cease,  I  pray ;  go  your  way !  " 
Martha  cries,  her  eyelids  wetting ; 

"  Foul  and  false  the  words  you  say  !  " 

*'  Martha  Mason,  hear  to  reason ! 
Prithee,  put  a  kinder  face  on !  " 

"  Cease  to  vex  me,"  did  she  say ; 
"  Better  at  his  side  be  lying, 
With  the  mournful  pine-trees  sighing, 
And  the  wild  birds  o'er  us  crying, 

Than  to  doubt  like  mine  a  prey ; 

While  away,  far  away, 
Turns  my  heart,  forever  trying 

Some  new  hope  for  each  new  day. 

"  When  the  shadows  veil  the  meadows, 
And  the  sunset's  golden  ladders 

Sink  from  twilight's  walls  of  gray,  — 


THE  RANGER  165 

From  the  window  of  my  dreaming, 
I  can  see  his  sickle  gleaming, 
Cheery-voiced,  can  hear  him  teaming 

Down  the  locust-shaded  way ; 

But  away,  swift  away, 
Fades  the  fond,  delusive  seeming, 

And  I  kneel  again  to  pray. 

;  When  the  growing  dawn  is  showing, 
And  the  barn-yard  cock  is  crowing, 

And  the  horned  moon  pales  away : 
From  a  dream  of  him  awaking, 
Every  sound  my  heart  is  making 
Seems  a  footstep  of  his  taking  ; 

Then  I  hush  the  thought,  and  say, 

'  Nay,  nay,  he  's  away  ! ' 
Ah !  my  heart,  my  heart  is  breaking 

For  the  dear  one  far  away." 

Look  up,  Martha !  worn  and  swarthy, 
Glows  a  face  of  manhood  worthy : 

"  Robert !  "  «*  Martha !  "  all  they  say. 
O'er  went  wheel  and  reel  together, 
Little  cared  the  owner  whither ; 
Heart  of  lead  is  heart  of  feather, 

Noon  of  night  is  noon  of  day ! 

Come  away,  come  away  ! 
When  such  lovers  meet  each  other, 

Why  should  prying  idlers  stay  ? 

Quench  the  timber's  fallen  embers, 
Quench  the  red  leaves  in  December's 
Hoary  rime  and  chilly  spray. 


166    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

But  the  hearth  shall  kindle  clearer, 
Household  welcomes  sound  sincerer, 
Heart  to  loving  heart  draw  nearer, 
When  the  bridal  bells  shall  say : 
"  Hope  and  pray,  trust  alway  ; 
Life  is  sweeter,  love  is  dearer, 

For  the  trial  and  delay  !  " 
1856. 


THE  GARRISON  OF  CAPE  ANN. 

FROM  the  hills  of  home  forth  looking,  far  beneath 

the  tent-like  span 
Of  the  sky,  I  see  the  white  gleam  of  the  headland 

of  Cape  Ann. 
Well  I  know  its  coves  and  beaches  to  the  ebb-tide 

glimmering  down, 
And  the  white-walled  hamlet  children  of  its  ancient 

fishing-town. 

Long  has  passed  the  summer    morning,  and  its 

memory  waxes  old, 
When  along  yon  breezy  headlands  with  a  pleasant 

friend  I  strolled. 
Ah!  the  autumn  sun  is  shining,  and   the  ocean 

wind  blows  cool, 
And  the  golden-rod  and  aster  bloom  around  thy 

grave,  Rantoul ! 

With  the  memory  of  that  morning  by  the  summer 

sea  I  blend 
A  wild  and  wondrous  story,  by  the  younger  Mather 

penned, 


THE   GARRISON  OF  CAPE    ANN       167 

In  that  quaint  Magnolia  Christi,  with  all  strange 

and  marvellous  things, 
Heaped  up  huge  and  undigested,  like  the  chaos 

Ovid  sings. 

Dear  to  me  these  far,  faint  glimpses  of  the  dual 
life  of  old, 

Inward,  grand  with  awe  and  reverence ;  outward, 
mean  and  coarse  and  cold ; 

Gleams  of  mystic  beauty  playing  over  dull  and  vul- 
gar clay, 

Golden-threaded  fancies  weaving  in  a  web  of  hod- 
den gray. 

The  great  eventful  Present  hides  the  Past ;  but 
through  the  din 

Of  its  loud  life  hints  and  echoes  from  the  life  be- 
hind steal  in ; 

And  the  lore  of  home  and  fireside,  and  the  legend- 
ary rhyme, 

Make  the  task  of  duty  lighter  which  the  true  man 
owes  his  time. 

So,  with  something  of  the  feeling  which  the  Cove- 
nanter knew, 

When  with  pious  chisel  wandering  Scotland's 
moorland  graveyards  through, 

From  the  graves  of  old  traditions  I  part  the  black- 
berry-vines, 

Wipe  the  moss  from  off  the  headstones,  and  re- 
touch the  faded  lines. 


168     NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

Where  the  sea-waves  back  and  forward,  hoarse 
with  rolling  pebbles,  ran, 

The  garrison-house  stood  watching  on  the  gray 
rocks  of  Cape  Ann ; 

On  its  windy  site  uplifting  gabled  roof  and  pali- 
sade, 

And  rough  walls  of  unhewn  timber  with  the  moon- 
light overlaid. 

On  his  slow  round  walked  the  sentry,  south  and 

eastward  looking  forth 
O'er   a  rude   and    broken  coast-line,  white    with 

breakers  stretching  north,  — 
Wood  and  rock  and  gleaming  sand-drift,  jagged 

capes,  with  bush  and  tree, 
Leaning  inland  from  the  smiting  of  the  wild  and 

gusty  sea. 

Before  the  deep-mouthed  chimney,  dimly  lit  by 

•i»dying  brands, 
Twenty  soldiers  sat  and  waited,  with  their  muskets 

in  their  hands  ; 
On  the  rough-hewn  oaken  table  the  venison  haunch 

was  shared, 
And  the  pewter  tankard  circled  slowly  round  from 

beard  to  beard. 

Long  they  sat  and  talked  together,  —  talked  of 
wizards  Satan-sold  ; 

Of  all  ghostly  sights  and  noises,  —  signs  and  won- 
ders manifold ; 


THE   GARRISON  OF  CAPE  ANN        169 

Of  the  spectre-ship  of  Salem,  with  the  dead  men 
in  her  shrouds, 

Sailing  sheer  above  the  water,  in  the  loom  of  morn- 
ing clouds ; 

Of  the  marvellous  valley  hidden  in  the  depths  of 

Gloucester  woods, 
Full  of  plants  that  love  the  summer,  —  blooms  of 

warmer  latitudes ; 
Where  the  Arctic  birch  is  braided  by  the  tropic's 

flowery  vines, 
And  the  white  magnolia-blossoms  star  the  twilight 

of  the  pines ! 

But  their  voices  sank  yet  lower,  sank  to  husky 

tones  of  fear, 
As  they  spake  of  present  tokens  of  the  powers  of 

evil  near ; 
Of  a  spectral  host,  defying  stroke  of  steel  and  aim 

of  gun ; 
Never  yet  was  ball  to  slay  them  in  the  mould  of 

mortals  run ! 

Thrice,  with  plumes  and  flowing  scalp-locks,  from 
the  midnight  wood  they  came,  — 

Thrice  around  the  block-house  marching,  met,  un- 
harmed, its  volleyed  flame ; 

Then,  with  mocking  laugh  and  gesture,  sunk  in 
earth  or  lost  in  air, 

All  the  ghostly  wonder  vanished,  and  the  moonlit 
sands  lay  bare. 


170    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

Midnight   came ;    from   out   the  forest   moved   a 

dusky  mass  that  soon 
Grew    to  warriors,  plumed    and  painted,  grimly 

marching  in  the  moon. 
"  Ghosts  or  witches,"  said  the  captain,  "  thus  I  foil 

the  Evil  One  !  " 
And  he  rammed  a  silver  button,  from  his  doublet, 

down  his  gun. 

Once  again  the  spectral  horror  moved  the  guarded 
wall  about ; 

Once  again  the  levelled  muskets  through  the  pali- 
sades flashed  out, 

With  that  deadly  aim  the  squirrel  on  his  tree-top 
might  not  shun, 

Nor  the  beach-bird  seaward  flying  with  his  slant 
wing  to  the  sun. 

Like  the  idle  rain  of  summer  sped  the  harmless 

shower  of  lead. 
With  a  laugh  of  fierce  derision,  once  again  the 

phantoms  fled ; 
Once  again,  without  a  shadow  on  the  sands  the 

moonlight  lay, 
And  the  white  smoke  curling  through  it  drifted 

slowly  down  the  bay  ! 

"  God  preserve  us  !  "  said  the  captain  ;    "  never 

mortal  foes  were  there  ; 
They  have  vanished  with  their  leader,  Prince  and 

Power  of  the  air  ! 


THE  GARRISON  OF  CAPE  ANN        171 

Lay  aside  your  useless  weapons  ;  skill  and  prowess 
naught  avail ; 

They  who  do  the  Devil's  service  wear  their  mas- 
ter's coat  of  mail !  " 

So  the  night  grew  near  to  cock-crow,  when  again 

a  warning  call 
Roused  the  score  of  weary  soldiers  watching  round 

the  dusky  hall : 
And  they  looked  to  flint  and  priming,  and  they 

longed  for  break  of  day ; 
But  the  captain  closed  his  Bible :  "  Let  us  cease 

from  man,  and  pray  !  " 

To  the  men  who  went  before  us,  all  the  unseen 

powers  seemed  near, 
And  their  steadfast  strength  of  courage  struck  its 

roots  in  holy  fear. 
Every  hand  forsook  the  musket,  every  head  was 

bowed  and  bare, 
Every  stout  knee  pressed  the  flag-stones,  as  the 

captain  led  in  prayer. 

Ceased  thereat  the  mystic  marching  of  the  spectres 

round  the  wall, 
But  a  sound  abhorred,  unearthly,  smote  the  ears 

and  hearts  of  all,  — 
Howls  of  rage  and  shrieks  of  anguish!     Never 

after  mortal  man 
Saw  the  ghostly  leaguers    marching    round    the 

block-house  of  Cape  Ann. 


172    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

So  to  us  who  walk  in  summer  through  the  cool  and 

sea-blown  town, 
From  the  childhood  of  its  people  conies  the  solemn 

legend  down. 
Not  in  vain  the  ancient  fiction,  in  whose  moral 

lives  the  youth 
And  the  fitness  and  the  freshness  of  an  undecay- 

ing  truth. 

Soon  or  late  to  all  our  dwellings  come  the  spectres 

of  the  mind, 
Doubts  and  fears  and  dread  forebodings,  in  the 

darkness  undefined ; 
Round  us  throng  the  grim  projections  of  the  heart 

and  of  the  brain, 
And  our  pride  of  strength  is  weakness,  and  the 

cunning  hand  is  vain. 

In  the  dark  we  cry  like  children ;  and  no  answer 

from  on  high 
Breaks  the  crystal  spheres  of  silence,  and  no  white 

wings  downward  fly ; 
But  the  heavenly  help  we  pray  for  comes  to  faith, 

and  not  to  sight, 
And  our  prayers  themselves  drive  backward  all  the 

spirits  of  the  night ! 
1857. 


THE  GIFT  OF  TRITEMIUS. 

TRITEMIUS  of  Herbipolis,  one  day, 
While  kneeling  at  the  altar's  foot  to  pray, 
Alone  with  God,  as  was  his  pious  choice, 
Heard  from  without  a  miserable  voice, 


THE   GIFT  OF  TRITEMIUS  173 

A  sound  which  seemed  of  all  sad  things  to  tell, 
As  of  a  lost  soul  crying  out  of  hell. 

Thereat  the  Abbot  paused  ;  the  chain  whereby 
His  thoughts  went  upward  broken  by  that  cry ; 
And,  looking  from  the  casement,  saw  below 
A  wretched  woman,  with  gray  hair  a-flow, 
And  withered  hands  held  up  to  him,  who  cried 
For  alms  as  one  who  might  not  be  denied. 

She  cried,  "For  the  dear  love  of  Him  who  gave 
His  life  for  ours,  my  child  from  bondage  save,  — 
My  beautiful,  brave  first-born,  chained  with  slaves 
In  the  Moor's  galley,  where  the  sun-srnit  waves 
Lap  the  white  walls  of  Tunis  !  "  —  "  What  I  can 
I  give,"  Tritemius  said,  "  my  prayers."  —  "  O  man 
Of  God  !  "  she  cried,  for  grief  had  made  her  bold, 
"  Mock  me  not  thus  ;  I  ask  not  prayers,  but  gold. 
Words  will  not  serve  me,  alms  alone  suffice ; 
Even  while  I  speak  perchance  my  first-born  dies." 

"  WToman  !  "  Tritemius  answered,  "  from  our  door 
None  go  unfed,  hence  are  we  always  poor  ; 
A  single  soldo  is  our  only  store. 
Thou  hast  our  prayers  ;  —  what  can  we  give  thee 
more?" 

"  Give  me,"  she  said,  "  the  silver  candlesticks 
On  either  side  of  the  great  crucifix. 
God  well  may  spare  them  on  His  errands  sped, 
Or  He  can  give  you  golden  ones  instead." 

Then  spake  Tritemius,  "  Even  as  thy  word, 
Woman,  so  be  it !     (Our  most  gracious  Lord, 


174   NARRATIVE   AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

Who  loveth  mercy  more  than  sacrifice, 
Pardon  me  if  a  human  soul  I  prize 
Above  the  gifts  upon  his  altar  piled  !) 
Take  what  thou  askest,  and  redeem  thy  child." 

But  his  hand  trembled  as  the  holy  alms 
He  placed  within  the  beggar's  eager  palms ; 
And  as  she  vanished  down  the  linden  shade, 
He  bowed  his  head  and  for  forgiveness  prayed. 

So  the  day  passed,  and  when  the  twilight  came 
He  woke  to  find  the  chapel  all  aflame, 
And,  dumb  with  grateful  wonder,  to  behold 
Upon  the  altar  candlesticks  of  gold ! 
1857. 

SKIPPER  IRESON'S  RIDE. 

In  the  valuable  and  carefully  prepared  History  of  Marblehead, 
published  in  1879  by  Samuel  Roads,  Jr.,  it  is  stated  that  the  crew 
of  Captain  Ireson,  rather  than  himself,  were  responsible  for  the 
abandonment  of  the  disabled  vessel.  To  screen  themselves  they 
charged  their  captain  with  the  crime.  In  view  of  this  the  writer 
of  the  ballad  addressed  the  following  letter  to  the  historian  : — 

OAK  KNOLL,  DANVEBS,  5  mo.  18,  1880. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND  :  I  heartily  thank  thee  for  a  copy  of  thy 
History  of  Marblehead.  I  have  read  it  with  great  interest  and 
think  good  use  has  been  made  of  the  abundant  material.  No 
town  in  Essex  County  has  a  record  more  honorable  than  Marble- 
head  ;  no  one  has  done  more  to  develop  the  industrial  interests  of 
our  New  England  seaboard,  and  certainly  none  have  given  such 
evidence  of  self-sacrificing  patriotism.  I  am  glad  the  story  of  it 
has  been  at  last  told,  and  told  so  well.  I  have  now  no  doubt  that 
thy  version  of  Skipper  Ireson's  ride  is  the  correct  one.  My  verse 
was  founded  solely  on  a  fragment  of  rhyme  which  I  heard  from 
one  of  my  early  schoolmates,  a  native  of  Marblehead. 

I  supposed  the  story  to  which  it  referred  dated  back  at  least  a 
century.  I  knew  nothing  of  the  participators,  and  the  narrative 


SKIPPER  IRESON'S  RIDE  175 

of  the  ballad  was  pure  fancy.     I  am  glad  for  the  sake  of  truth 
and  justice  that  the  real  facts  are  given  in  thy  book.     I  certainly 
•would  not  knowingly  do  injustice  to  any  one,  dead  or  living. 
I  am  very  truly  thy  friend, 

JOHN  G.  WHITTIEK. 


OF  all  the  rides  since  the  birth  of  time, 
Told  in  story  or  sung  in  rhyme,  — 
On  Apuleius's  Golden  Ass, 
Or  one-eyed  Calendar's  horse  of  brass, 
Witch  astride  of  a  human  back, 
Islam's  prophet  on  Al-Borak,  — 
The  strangest  ride  that  ever  was  sped 
Was  Ireson's,  out  from  Marblehead ! 
Old  Floyd  Ireson,  for  his  hard  heart, 
Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried  in  a  cart 
By  the  women  of  Marblehead  ! 

Body  of  turkey,  head  of  owl, 
Wings  a-droop  like  a  raiued-on  fowl, 
Feathered  and  ruffled  in  every  part, 
Skipper  Ireson  stood  in  the  cart. 
Scores  of  women,  old  and  young, 
Strong  of  muscle,  and  glib  of  tongue, 
Pushed  and  pulled  up  the  rocky  lane, 
Shouting  and  singing  the  shrill  refrain  : 
"  Here 's  Flud  Oirson,  fur  his  horrd  horrt, 
Torr'd  an'  futherr'd  an'  corr'd  in  a  corrt 
By  the  women  o'  Morble'ead !  " 

Wrinkled  scolds  with  hands  on  hips, 
Girls  in  bloom  of  cheek  and  lips, 
Wild-eyed,  free-limbed,  such  as  chase 
Bacchus  round  some  antique  vase, 


176    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

Brief  of  skirt,  with  ankles  bare, 

Loose  of  kerchief  and  loose  of  hair, 

With  conch-shells  blowing  and  fish-horns'  twang, 

Over  and  over  the  Maenads  sang : 

"  Here  's  Flud  Oirson,  fur  his  horrd  horrt, 
Torr'd  an'  futherr'd  an  corr'd  in  a  corrt 
By  the  women  o'  Morble'ead  !  " 

Small  pity  for  him  !  —  He  sailed  away 
From  a  leaking  ship,  in  Chaleur  Bay,  — 
Sailed  away  from  a  sinking  wreck, 
With  his  own  town's-people  on  her  deck ! 
"  Lay  by  !  lay  by  !  "  they  called  to  him. 
Back  he  answered,  "  Sink  or  swim  ! 
Brag  of  your  catch  of  fish  again  !  " 
And  off  he  sailed  through  the  fog  and  rain ! 
Old  Floyd  Ireson,  for  his  hard  heart, 
Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried  in  a  cart 
By  the  women  of  Marblehead ! 

Fathoms  deep  in  dark  Chaleur 
That  wreck  shall  lie  forevermore. 
Mother  and  sister,  wife  and  maid, 
Looked  from  the  rocks  of  Marblehead 
Over  the  moaning  and  rainy  sea,  — 
Looked  for  the  coming  that  might  not  be ! 
What  did  the  winds  and  the  sea-birds  say 
Of  the  cruel  captain  who  sailed  away  ?  — 
Old  Floyd  Ireson,  for  his  hard  heart, 
Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried  in  a  cart 
By  the  women  of  Marblehead  ! 

Through  the  street,  on  either  side, 
Up  flew  windows,  doors  swung  wide ; 


SKIPPER  IRESON'S  RIDE  177 

Sharp-tongued  spinsters,  old  wives  gray, 
Treble  lent  the  fish-horn's  bray. 
Sea-worn  grandsires,  cripple-bound, 
Hulks  of  old  sailors  run  aground, 
Shook  head,  and  fist,  and  hat,  and  cane, 
And  cracked  with  curses  the  hoarse  refrain : 
"  Here 's  Flud  Oirson,  fur  his  horrd  horrt, 
Torr'd  an'  futherr'd  an'  corr'd  in  a  corrt 
By  the  women  o'  Morble'ead !  " 

Sweetly  along  the  Salem  road 
Bloom  of  orchard  and  lilac  showed. 
Little  the  wicked  skipper  knew 
Of  the  fields  so  green  and  the  sky  so  blue. 
Riding  there  in  his  sorry  trim, 
Like  an  Indian  idol  glum  and  grim, 
Scarcely  he  seemed  the  sound  to  hear 
Of  voices  shouting,  far  and  near  : 

"  Here  's  Flud  Oirson,  fur  his  horrd  horrt, 
Torr'd  an'  futherr'd  an'  corr'd  in  a  corrt 
By  the  women  o'  Morble'ead  !  " 

/;'  Hear  me,  neighbors !  "  at  last  he  cried,  — 
"  What  to  me  is  this  noisy  ride  ? 
What  is  the  shame  that  clothes  the  skin 
To  the  nameless  horror  that  lives  within  ? 
Waking  or  sleeping,  I  see  a  wreck, 
And  hear  a  cry  from  a  reeling  deck  ! 
Hate  me  and  curse  me,  —  I  only  dread 
The  hand  of  God  and  the  face  of  the  dead !  " 
Said  old  Floyd  Ireson,  for  his  hard  heart, 
Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried  in  a  cart 
By  the  women  of  Marblehead  ! 


178    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

Then  the  wife  of  the  skipper  lost  at  sea 
Said,  "  God  has  touched  him  !   why  should  we  ?  " 
Said  an  old  wife  mourning  her  only  son, 
"  Cut  the  rogue's  tether  and  let  him  run !  " 
So  with  soft  relentings  and  rude  excuse, 
Half  scorn,  half  pity,  they  cut  him  loose, 
And  gave  him  a  cloak  to  hide  him  in, 
And  left  him  alone  with  his  shame  and  sin. 
Poor  Floyd  Ireson,  for  his  hard  heart, 
Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried  in  a  cart 

By  the  women  of  Marblehead ! 
1857. 

THE  SYCAMORES. 

Hugh  Tallant  was  the  first  Irish  resident  of  Haverhill,  Mass. 
He  planted  the  button-wood  trees  on  the  bank  of  the  river  below 
the  village  in  the  early  part  of  the  seventeenth  century.  Unfor- 
tunately this  noble  avenue  is  now  nearly  destroyed. 

IN  the  outskirts  of  the  village, 

On  the  river's  winding  shores, 
Stand  the  Occidental  plane-trees, 

Stand  the  ancient  sycamores. 

One  long  century  hath  been  numbered, 

And  another  half-way  told, 
Since  the  rustic  Irish  gleeman 

Broke  for  them  the  virgin  mould. 

Deftly  set  to  Celtic  music, 

At  his  violin's  sound  they  grew, 

Through  the  moonlit  eves  of  summer, 
Making  Amphion's  fable  true. 


THE   SYCAMORES  179 

Rise  again,  thou  poor  Hugh  Tallant ! 

Pass  in  jerkin  green  along, 
With  thy  eyes  brimful  of  laughter, 

And  thy  mouth  as  full  of  song. 

Pioneer  of  Erin's  outcasts, 

With  his  fiddle  and  his  pack  ; 
Little  dreamed  the  village  Saxons 

Of  the  myriads  at  his  back. 

How  he  wrought  with  spade  and  fiddle, 
Delved  by  day  and  sang  by  night, 

With  a  hand  that  never  wearied, 
And  a  heart  forever  light,  — 

Still  the  gay  tradition  mingles 

With  a  record  grave  and  drear, 
Like  the  rollic  air  of  Cluny, 

With  the  solemn  march  of  Mear. 

When  the  box-tree,  white  with  blossoms, 
Made  the  sweet  May  woodlands  glad, 

And  the  Aronia  by  the  river 
Lighted  up  the  swarming  shad, 

And  the  bulging  nets  swept  shoreward, 

With  their  silver-sided  haul, 
Midst  the  shouts  of  dripping  fishers, 

He  was  merriest  of  them  all. 

When,  among  the  jovial  huskers, 

Love  stole  in  at  Labor's  side, 
With  the  lusty  airs  of  England, 

Soft  his  Celtic  measures  vied. 


180    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

Songs  of  love  and  wailing  lyke-wake, 

And  the  merry  fair's  carouse  ; 
Of  the  wild  Ked  Fox  of  Erin 

And  the  Woman  of  Three  Cows, 

By  the  blazing  hearths  of  winter, 
Pleasant  seemed  his  simple  tales, 

Midst  the  grimmer  Yorkshire  legends 
And  the  mountain  myths  of  Wales. 

How  the  souls  in  Purgatory 

Scrambled  up  from  fate  forlorn, 

On  St.  Keven's  sackcloth  ladder, 
Slyly  hitched  to  Satan's  horn. 

Of  the  fiddler  who  at  Tara 

Played  all  night  to  ghosts  of  kings ; 

Of  the  brown  dwarfs,  and  the  fairies 
Dancing  in  their  moorland  rings ! 

Jolliest  of  our  birds  of  singing, 
Best  he  loved  the  Bob-o-link. 
"  Hush  ! "  he  'd  say,  "  the  tipsy  fairies  ! 
Hear  the  little  folks  in  drink !  " 

Merry-faced,  with  spade  and  fiddle, 
Singing  through  the  ancient  town, 

Only  this,  of  poor  Hugh  Tallant, 
Hath  Tradition  handed  down. 

Not  a  stone  his  grave  discloses  ; 

But  if  yet  his  spirit  walks, 
'T  is  beneath  the  trees  he  planted, 

And  when  Bob-o-Lincoln  talks ; 


THE  SYCAMORES  181 

Green  memorials  of  the  gleeman ! 

Linking  still  the  river-shores, 
With  their  shadows  cast  by  sunset, 

Stand  Hugh  Tallant's  sycamores ! 

When  the  Father  of  his  Country 
Through  the  north-land  riding  came, 

And  the  roofs  were  starred  with  banners, 
And  the  steeples  rang  acclaim,  — 

When  each  war-scarred  Continental, 

Leaving  smithy,  mill,  and  farm, 
Waved  his  rusted  sword  in  welcome, 

And  shot  off  his  old  king's  arm,  — 

Slowly  passed  that  august  Presence 

Down  the  thronged  and  shouting  street ; 

Village  girls  as  white  as  angels, 
Scattering  flowers  around  his  feet. 

Midway,  where  the  plane-tree's  shadow 

Deepest  fell,  his  rein  he  drew  : 
On  his  stately  head,  uncovered, 

Cool  and  soft  the  west-wind  blew. 

And  he  stood  up  in  his  stirrups, 

Looking  up  and  looking  down 
On  the  hills  of  Gold  and  Silver 

Rimming  round  the  little  town,  — 

On  the  river,  full  of  sunshine, 

To  the  lap  of  greenest  vales 
Winding  down  from  wooded  headlands, 

Willow-skirted,  white  with  sails. 


182    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

And  he  said,  the  landscape  sweeping 

Slowly  with  his  ungloved  hand, 
"  I  have  seen  no  prospect  fairer 
In  this  goodly  Eastern  land." 

Then  the  bugles  of  his  escort 

Stirred  to  life  the  cavalcade  : 
And  that  head,  so  bare  and  stately, 

Vanished  down  the  depths  of  shade. 

Ever  since,  in  town  and  farm-house, 
Life  has  had  its  ebb  and  flow ; 

Thrice  hath  passed  the  human  harvest 
To  its  garner  green  and  low. 

But  the  trees  the  gleeman  planted, 

Through  the  changes,  changeless  stand ; 

As  the  marble  calm  of  Tadmor 
Mocks  the  desert's  shifting  sand. 

Still  the  level  moon  at  rising 
Silvers  o'er  each  stately  shaft ; 

Still  beneath  them,  half  in  shadow, 
Singing,  glides  the  pleasure  craft ; 

Still  beneath  them,  arm-enfolded, 
Love  and  Youth  together  stray  ; 

While,  as  heart  to  heart  beats  faster, 
More  and  more  their  feet  delay. 

Where  the  ancient  cobbler,  Keezar, 

On  the  open  hillside  wrought, 
Singing,  as  he  drew  his  stitches, 

Songs  his  German  masters  taught, 


THE  PIPES  AT  LUCKNOW  183 

Singing,  with  his  gray  hair  floating 

Round  his  rosy  ample  face,  — 
Now  a  thousand  Saxon  craftsmen 

Stitch  and  hammer  in  his  place. 

All  the  pastoral  lanes  so  grassy 
Now  are  Traffic's  dusty  streets  ; 

From  the  village,  grown  a  city, 
Fast  the  rural  grace  retreats. 

But,  still  green,  and  tall,  and  stately, 

On  the  river's  winding  shores, 
Stand  the  Occidental  plane-trees, 

Stand  Hugh  Tallant's  sycamores. 

1857. 

THE  PIPES  AT  LUCKNOW. 

An  incident  of  the  Sepoy  mutiny. 

PIPES  of  the  misty  moorlands, 

Voice  of  the  glens  and  hills  ; 
The  droning  of  the  torrents, 

The  treble  of  the  rills  ! 
Not  the  braes  of  broom  and  heather, 

Nor  the  mountains  dark  with  rain, 
Nor  maiden  bower,  nor  border  tower, 

Have  heard  your  sweetest  strain ! 

Dear  to  the  Lowland  reaper, 
And  plaided  mountaineer,  — 

To  the  cottage  and  the  castle 
The  Scottish  pipes  are  dear  ;  — 

Sweet  sounds  the  ancient  pibroch 
O'er  mountain,  loch,  and  glade  ; 


184    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

But  the  sweetest  of  all  music 
The  pipes  at  Lucknow  played. 

Day  by  day  the  Indian  tiger 

Louder  yelled,  and  nearer  crept ; 
Round  and  round  the  jungle-serpent 

Near  and  nearer  circles  swept. 
"  Pray  for  rescue,  wives  and  mothers,  — 

Pray  to-day !  "  the  soldier  said  ; 
"  To-morrow,  death 's  between  us 

And  the  wrong  and  shame  we  dread. 

Oh,  they  listened,  looked,  and  waited, 

Till  their  hope  became  despair  ; 
And  the  sobs  of  low  bewailing 

Filled  the  pauses  of  their  prayer. 
Then  up  spake  a  Scottish  maiden, 

With  her  ear  unto  the  ground  : 
"  Dinna  ye  hear  it  ?  —  dinna  ye  hear  it  ? 

The  pipes  o'  Havelock  sound  !  " 

Hushed  the  wounded  man  his  groaning ; 

Hushed  the  wife  her  little  ones  ; 
Alone  they  heard  the  drum-roll 

And  the  roar  of  Sepoy  guns. 
But  to  sounds  of  home  and  childhood 

The  Highland  ear  was  true  ;  — 
As  her  mother's  cradle-crooning 

The  mountain  pipes  she  knew. 

Like  the  march  of  soundless  music 

Through  the  vision  of  the  seer, 
More  of  feeling  than  of  hearing, 

Of  the  heart  than  of  the  ear, 


THE  PIPES  AT  LUCKNOW  185 

She  knew  the  droning  pibroch, 

She  knew  the  Campbell's  call : 
"  Hark  !  hear  ye  no'  MacGregor's, 
The  grandest  o'  them  all !  " 

Oh,  they  listened,  dumb  and  breathless, 

And  they  caught  the  sound  at  last ; 
Faint  and  far  beyond  the  Goomtee 

Rose  and  fell  the  piper's  blast ! 
Then  a  burst  of  wild  thanksgiving 

Mingled  woman's  voice  and  man's  ; 
"  God  be  praised  !  —  the  march  of  Havelock ! 

The  piping  of  the  clans  !  " 

Louder,  nearer,  fierce  as  vengeance, 

Sharp  and  shrill  as  swords  at  strife, 
Came  the  wild  MacGregor's  clan-call, 

Stinging  all  the  air  to  life. 
But  when  the  far-off  dust-cloud 

To  plaided  legions  grew, 
Full  tenderly  and  blithesomely 

The  pipes  of  rescue  blew ! 

Round  the  silver  domes  of  Lucknow, 

Moslem  mosque  and  Pagan  shrine, 
Breathed  the  air  to  Britons  dearest, 

The  air  of  Auld  Lang  Syne. 
O'er  the  cruel  roll  of  war-drums 

Rose  that  sweet  and  homelike  strain ; 
And  the  tartan  clove  the  turban, 

As  the  Goomtee  cleaves  the  plain. 

Dear  to  the  corn-land  reaper 
And  plaided  mountaineer,  — 


186    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

To  the  cottage  and  the  castle 

The  piper's  song  is  dear. 
Sweet  sounds  the  Gaelic  pibroch 

O'er  mountain,  glen,  and  glade  ; 
But  the  sweetest  of  all  music 

The  Pipes  at  Lucknow  played ! 
1858. 


TELLING  THE  BEES. 

A  remarkable  custom,  brought  from  the  Old  Country,  formerly 
prevailed  in  the  rural  districts  of  New  England.  On  the  death 
of  a  member  of  the  family,  the  bees  were  at  once  informed  of  the 
event,  and  their  hives  dressed  in  mourning.  This  ceremonial 
was  supposed  to  be  necessary  to  prevent  the  swarms  from  leaving 
their  hives  and  seeking  a  new  home. 

HERE  is  the  place  ;  right  over  the  hill 

Runs  the  path  I  took  ; 
You  can  see  the  gap  in  the  old  wall  still, 

And  the  stepping-stones  in  the  shallow  brook. 

There  is  the  house,  with  the  gate  red-barred, 

And  the  poplars  tall ; 
And  the  barn's  brown  length,  and  the  cattle-yard, 

And  the  white  horns  tossing  above  the  waU. 

There  are  the  beehives  ranged  in  the  sun ; 

And  down  by  the  brink 
Of  the  brook  are  her  poor  flowers,  weed-o'errun, 

Pansy  and  daffodil,  rose  and  pink. 

A  year  has  gone,  as  the  tortoise  goes, 
Heavy  and  slow ; 


Telling  the  Bees 


TELLING   THE  BEES  187 

And  the  same  rose  blows,  and  the  same  sun  glows, 
And  the  same  brook  sings  of  a  year  ago. 

There 's  the  same  sweet  clover-smell  in  the  breeze  ; 

And  the  June  sun  warm 
Tangles  his  wings  of  fire  in  the  trees, 

Setting,  as  then,  over  Fernside  farm. 

I  mind  me  how  with  a  lover's  care 

From  my  Sunday  coat 
I  brushed  off  the  burrs,  and  smoothed  my  hair, 

And    cooled   at   the   brookside   my   brow   and 
throat. 

Since  we  parted,  a  month  had  passed,  — 

To  love,  a  year ; 
Down  through  the  beeches  I  looked  at  last 

On  the  little  red  gate  and  the  well-sweep  near. 

I  can  see  it  all  now,  —  the  slantwise  rain 

Of  light  through  the  leaves, 
The  sundown's  blaze  on  her  window-pane, 

The  bloom  of  her  roses  under  the  eaves. 

Just  the  same  as  a  month  before,  — 

The  house  and  the  trees, 
The  barn's  brown  gable,  the  vine  by  the  door,  — 

Nothing  changed  but  the  hives  of  bees. 

Before  them,  under  the  garden  wall, 

Forward  and  back, 
Went  drearily  singing  the  chore-girl  small, 

Draping  each  hive  with  a  shred  of  black. 


188  NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

Trembling,  I  listened  :  the  summer  sun 

Had  the  chill  of  snow  ; 
For  I  knew  she  was  telling  the  bees  of  one 

Gone  on  the  journey  we  all  must  go  ! 

Then  I  said  to  myself,  "  My  Mary  weeps 

For  the  dead  to-day  : 
Haply  her  blind  old  grandsire  sleeps 

The  fret  and  the  pain  of  his  age  away." 

But  her  dog  whined  low ;  on  the  doorway  sill, 

With  his  cane  to  his  chin, 
The  old  man  sat ;  and  the  chore-girl  still 

Sung  to  the  bees  stealing  out  and  in. 

And  the  song  she  was  singing  ever  since 

In  my  ear  sounds  on  :  — 
"  Stay  at  home,  pretty  bees,  fly  not  hence ! 
Mistress  Mary  is  dead  and  gone  !  " 

1858. 


THE  SWAN  SONG  OF  PARSON  AVERT. 

In  Young's  Chronicles  of  Massachusetts  Bay  from  1623  to  1636 
may  be  found  Anthony  Thacher's  Narrative  of  his  Shipwreck. 
Thacher  was  Avery's  companion  and  survived  to  tell  the  tale. 
Mather's  Magnolia,  III.  2,  gives  further  Particulars  of  Parson 
Avery's  End,  and  suggests  the  title  of  the  poem. 

WHEN  the  reaper's  task  was  ended,  and  the  sum- 
mer wearing  late, 

Parson  Avery  sailed  from  Newbury,  with  his  wife 
and  children  eight, 

Dropping  down  the  river-harbor  in  the  shallop 
"  Watch  and  Wait." 


THE  SWAN  SONG  OF  PARSON  A  VERY    189 

Pleasantly  lay  the  clearings  in  the  mellow  summer- 
morn, 

With  the  newly  planted  orchards  dropping  their 
fruits  first-born, 

And  the  home-roofs  like  brown  islands  amid  a  sea 
of  corn. 

Broad  meadows   reached  out   seaward   the  tided 

creeks  between, 
And  hills  rolled  wave-like  inland,  with  oaks  and 

walnuts  green ;  — 
A  fairer  home,  a  goodlier  land,  his  eyes  had  never 


Yet  away  sailed  Parson  Avery,  away  where  duty 

led, 
And  the  voice  of  God  seemed  calling,  to  break  the 

living  bread 
To  the  souls  of  fishers  starving  on  the  rocks  of 

Marblehead. 

All  day  they  sailed  :  at  nightfall  the  pleasant  land- 
breeze  died, 

The  blackening  sky,  at  midnight,  its  starry  lights 
denied, 

And  far  and  low  the  thunder  of  tempest  prophe- 
sied ! 

Blotted  out  were  all  the  coast-lines,  gone  were  rock, 

and  wood,  and  sand ; 
Grimly  anxious  stood  the  skipper  with  the  rudder 

in  his  hand, 
And  questioned  of  the  darkness  what  was  sea  and 

what  was  land. 


190    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

And  the  preacher  heard  his  dear  ones,  nestled 
round  him,  weeping  sore  : 

"  Never  heed,  ray  little  children  !  Christ  is  walk- 
ing on  before 

To  the  pleasant  land  of  heaven,  where  the  sea  shall 
be  no  more." 

All  at  once  the  great  cloud  parted,  like  a  curtain 

drawn  aside, 
To  let  down  the  torch  of  lightning  on  the  terror 

far  and  wide ; 
And  the  thunder  and  the  whirlwind  together  smote 

the  tide. 

There  was  wailing  in  the  shallop,  woman's  wail 

and  man's  despair, 
A  crash  of  breaking  timbers  on  the  rocks  so  sharp 

and  bare, 
And,  through  it  all,  the  murmur  of  Father  Avery's 

prayer. 

From  his  struggle  in  the  darkness  with  the  wild 

waves  and  the  blast, 
On  a  rock,  where  every  billow  broke  above  him  as 

it  passed, 
Alone,  of  all  his  household,  the  man  of  God  was 

cast. 

There  a  comrade  heard  him  praying,  in  the  pause 
of  wave  and  wind  : 

"  All  my  own  have  gone  before  me,  and  I  linger 
just  behind ; 

Not  for  life  I  ask,  but  only  for  the  rest  Thy  ran- 
somed find  I 


THE  SWAN  SONG  OF  PARSON  A  VERY  191 

"  In  this  night  of  death  I  challenge  the  promise  of 

Thy  word !  — 
Let  me  see  the  great  salvation  of  which  mine  ears 

have  heard !  — 
Let  me  pass  from  hence   forgiven,  through    the 

grace  of  Christ,  our  Lord ! 

"  In  the  baptism  of  these  waters  wash  white  my 

every  sin, 
And  let  me  follow  up  to  Thee  my  household  and 

my  kin  ! 
Open  the  sea-gate  of  Thy  heaven,  and  let  me  enter 

in!" 

When  the  Christian  sings  his  death-song,  all  the 

listening  heavens  draw  near, 
And  the  angels,  leaning  over  the  walls  of  crystal, 

hear 
How  the  notes  so  faint  and  broken  swell  to  music 

in  God's  ear. 

The  ear  of  God  was  open  to  His  servant's  last  re- 
quest ; 

As  the  strong  wave  swept  him  downward  the  sweet 
hymn  upward  pressed, 

And  the  soul  of  Father  Avery  went,  singing,  to  its 
rest. 

There  was  wailing  on  the  mainland,  from  the  rocks 

of  Marblehead ; 
In  the  stricken  church  of  Newbury  the  notes  o£ 

prayer  were  read ; 
And  long,  by  board  and  hearthstone,  the  living 

mourned  the  dead. 


192    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

And  still  the  fishers  outbound,  or  scudding  from 
the  squall, 

'With  grave  and  reverent  faces,  the  ancient  tale  re- 
call, 

When  they  see  the  white  waves  breaking  on  the 

Rock  of  Avery's  Fall ! 
1858. 


THE  DOUBLE-HEADED  SNAKE  OF  NEW- 
BURY. 

"  Concerning  ye  Amphisbaena,  as  soon  as  I  received  your  com- 
mands, I  made  diligent  inquiry:  ...  he  assures  me  y*  it  had 
really  two  heads,  one  at  each  end;  two  mouths,  two  stings  or 
tongues." — REV.  CHRISTOPHER  TOPPAN  to  COTTON  MATHER. 

FAR  away  in  the  twilight  time 
Of  every  people,  in  every  clime, 
Dragons  and  griffins  and  monsters  dire, 
Born  of  water,  and  air,  and  fire, 
Or  nursed,  like  the  Python,  in  the  mud 
And  ooze  of  the  old  Deucalion  flood, 
Crawl  and  wriggle  and  foam  with  rage, 
Through  dusk  tradition  and  ballad  age. 
So  from  the  childhood  of  Newbury  town 
And  its  time  of  fable  the  tale  comes  down 
Of  a  terror  which  haunted  bush  and  brake, 
The  Amphisbsena,  the  Double  Snake  I 

Thou  who  makest  the  tale  thy  mirth, 
Consider  that  strip  of  Christian  earth 
On  the  desolate  shore  of  a  sailless  sea, 
Full  of  terror  and  mystery, 


THE  DOUBLE-HEADED  SNAKE          193 

Half  redeemed  from  the  evil  hold 

Of  the  wood  so  dreary,  and  dark,  and  old, 

Which  drank  with  its  lips  of  leaves  the  dew 

When  Time  was  young,  and  the  world  was  new, 

And  wove  its  shadows  with  sun  and  moon, 

Ere  the  stones  of  Cheops  were  squared  and  hewn. 

Think  of  the  sea's  dread  monotone, 

Of  the  mournful  wail  from  the  pine-wood  blown, 

Of  the  strange,  vast  splendors  that  lit  the  North, 

Of  the  troubled  throes  of  the  quaking  earth, 

And  the  dismal  tales  the  Indian  told, 

Till  the  settler's  heart  at  his  hearth  grew  cold, 

And  he  shrank  from  the  tawny  wizard  boasts, 

And  the  hovering  shadows  seemed  full  of  ghosts, 

And  above,  below,  and  on  every  side, 

The  fear  of  his  creed  seemed  verified ;  — 

And  think,  if  his  lot  were  now  thine  own, 

To  grope  with  terrors  nor  named  nor  known, 

How  laxer  muscle  and  weaker  nerve 

And  a  feebler  faith  thy  need  might  serve ; 

And  own  to  thyself  the  wonder  more 

That  the  snake  had  two  heads,  and  not  a  score ! 

Whether  he  lurked  in  the  Oldtown  fen 

Or  the  gray  earth-flax  of  the  Devil's  Den, 

Or  swam  in  the  wooded  Artichoke, 

Or  coiled  by  the  Northman's  Written  Rock, 

Nothing  on  record  is  left  to  show  ; 

Only  the  fact  that  he  lived,  we  know, 

And  left  the  cast  of  a  double  head 

In  the  scaly  mask  which  he  yearly  shed. 

For  he  carried  a  head  where  his  tail  should  be, 

And  the  two,  of  course,  could  never  agree, 

VOL.  I.     13 


194    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

But  wriggled  about  with  main  and  might, 
Now  to  the  left  and  now  to  the  right ; 
Pulling  and  twisting  this  way  and  that, 
Neither  knew  what  the  other  was  at. 

A  snake  with  two  heads,  lurking  so  near ! 
Judge  of  the  wonder,  guess  at  the  fear ! 
Think  what  ancient  gossips  might  say, 
Shaking  their  heads  in  their  dreary  way, 
Between  the  meetings  on  Sabbath-day ! 
How  urchins,  searching  at  day's  decline 
The  Common  Pasture  for  sheep  or  kine, 
The  terrible  double-ganger  heard 
In  leafy  rustle  or  whir  of  bird  ! 
Think  what  a  zest  it  gave  to  the  sport, 
In  berry-time,  of  the  younger  sort, 
As  over  pastures  blackberry -twined, 
Reuben  and  Dorothy  lagged  behind, 
And  closer  and  closer,  for  fear  of  harm, 
The  maiden  clung  to  her  lover's  arm  ; 
And  how  the  spark,  who  was  forced  to  stay, 
By  his  sweetheart's  fears,  till  the  break  of  day, 
Thanked  the  snake  for  the  fond  delay ! 

Far  and  wide  the  tale  was  told, 

Like  a  snowball  growing  while  it  rolled. 

The  nurse  hushed  with  it  the  baby's  cry ; 

And  it  served,  in  the  worthy  minister's  eye, 

To  paint  the  primitive  serpent  by. 

Cotton  Mather  came  galloping  down 

All  the  way  to  Newbury  town, 

With  his  eyes  agog  and  his  ears  set  wide, 

And  his  marvellous  inkhorn  at  his  side  ; 


MABEL  MARTIN  195 

Stirring  the  while  in  the  shallow  pool 

Of  his  brains  for  the  lore  he  learned  at  school, 

To  garnish  the  story,  with  here  a  streak 

Of  Latin,  and  there  another  of  Greek  : 

And  the  tales  he  heard  and  the  notes  he  took, 

Behold  !  are  they  not  in  his  Wonder-Book  ? 

Stories,  like  dragons,  are  hard  to  kill. 

If  the  snake  does  not,  the  tale  runs  still 

In  Byfield  Meadows,  on  Pipestave  Hill. 

And  still,  whenever  husband  and  wife 

Publish  the  shame  of  their  daily  strife, 

And,  with  mad  cross-purpose,  tug  and  strain 

At  either  end  of  the  marriage-chain, 

The  gossips  say,  with  a  knowing  shake 

Of  their  gray  heads,  "  Look  at  the  Double  Snake ! 

One  in  body  and  two  in  will, 

The  Amphisbaena  is  living  still !  " 

1859. 


MABEL  MARTIN. 

A   HARVEST   IDYL. 

Susanna  Martin,  an  aged  woman  of  Amesbury,  Mass.,  was  tried 
and  executed  for  the  alleged  crime  of  witchcraft.  Her  home  was 
in  what  is  now  known  as  Pleasant  Valley  on  the  Merrimac,  a  lit- 
tle above  the  old  Ferry  way,  where,  tradition  says,  an  attempt 
was  made  to  assassinate  Sir  Edmund  Andros  on  his  way  to  Fal- 
mouth  (afterward  Portland)  and  Pemaquid,  which  was  frustrated 
by  a  warning  timely  given.  Goody  Martin  was  the  only  woman 
hanged  on  the  north  side  of  the  Merrimac  during  the  dreadful 
delusion.  The  aged  wife  of  Judge  Bradbury  who  lived  on  the 
other  side  of  the  Powow  River  was  imprisoned  and  would  have 
been  put  to  death  but  for  the  collapse  of  the  hideous  persecu- 
tion. 


196    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

The  substance  of  the  poem  which  follows  was  published  under 
the  name  of  The  Witch's  Daughter,  in  The  National  Era  in 
1857.  In  1875  my  publishers  desired  to  issue  it  with  illustra- 
tions, and  I  then  enlarged  it  and  otherwise  altered  it  to  its  present 
form.  The  principal  addition  was  in  the  verses  which  constitute 
Parti. 


PROEM. 

I  CALL  the  old  time  back :  I  bring  my  lay 
In  tender  memory  of  the  summer  day 
When,  where  our  native  river  lapsed  away, 

We  dreamed  it  over,  while  the  thrushes  made 
Songs   of    their   own,   and    the    great    pine-trees 

laid 
On  warm  noonlights  the  masses  of  their  shade. 

And  she  was  with  us,  living  o'er  again 

Her  life  in  ours,  despite  of  years  and  pain,  — 

The  Autumn's  brightness  after  latter  rain. 

Beautiful  in  her  holy  peace  as  one 

Who  stands,  at  evening,  when  the  work  is  done, 

Glorified  in  the  setting  of  the  sun  ! 

Her  memory  makes  our  common  landscape  seem 
Fairer  than  any  of  which  painters  dream  ; 
Lights  the  brown  hills  and  sings  in  every  stream ; 

For   she  whose   speech  was   always   truth's   pure 

gold 

Heard,  not  unpleased,  its  simple  legends  told, 
And  loved  with  us  the  beautiful  and  old. 


MABEL  MARTIN  197 


I.      THE  RIVER  VALLEY. 

Across  the  level  tableland, 
A  grassy,  rarely  trodden  way, 
With  thinnest  skirt  of  birchen  spray 

And  stunted  growth  of  cedar,  leads 
To  where  you  see  the  dull  plain  fall 
Sheer  off,  steep-slanted,  ploughed  by  all 

The  seasons'  rainfalls.     On  its  brink 
The  over-leaning  harebells  swing, 
With  roots  half  bare  the  pine-trees  cling ; 

And,  through  the  shadow  looking  west, 
You  see  the  wavering  river  flow 
Along  a  vale,  that  far  below 

Holds  to  the  sun,  the  sheltering  hills 
And  glimmering  water-line  between, 
Broad  fields  of  corn  and  meadows  green, 

And  fruit-bent  orchards  grouped  around 
The  low  brown  roofs  and  painted  eaves, 
And  chimney-tops  half  hid  in  leaves. 

No  warmer  valley  hides  behind 

Yon  wind-scourged  sand-dunes,  cold  and  bleak ; 
No  fairer  river  comes  to  seek 

The  wave-sung  welcome  of  the  sea, 
Or  mark  the  northmost  border  line 
Of  sun-loved  growths  of  nut  and  vine. 


198    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

Here,  ground-fast  in  their  native  fields, 
Untempted  by  the  city's  gain, 
The  quiet  farmer  folk  remain 

Who  bear  the  pleasant  name  of  Friends, 
And  keep  their  fathers'  gentle  ways 
And  simple  speech  of  Bible  days ; 

In  whose  neat  homesteads  woman  holds 
With  modest  ease  her  equal  place, 
And  wears  upon  her  tranquil  face 

The  look  of  one  who,  merging  not 
Her  self-hood  in  another's  will, 
Is  love's  and  duty's  handmaid  still. 

Pass  with  me  down  the  path  that  winds 
Through  birches  to  the  open  land, 
Where,  close  upon  the  river  strand 

You  mark  a  cellar,  vine  o'errun, 

Above  whose  wall  of  loosened  stones 
The  sumach  lifts  its  reddening  cones, 

And  the  black  nightshade's  berries  shine, 
And  broad,  unsightly  burdocks  fold 
The  household  ruin,  century-old. 

Here,  in  the  dim  colonial  time 

Of  sterner  lives  and  gloomier  faith, 
A  woman  lived,  tradition  saith, 


MABEL  MARTIN  199 

Who  wrought  her  neighbors  foul  annoy, 
And  witched  and  plagued  the  country-side, 
Till  at  the  hangman's  hand  she  died. 

Sit  with  me  while  the  westering  day 
Falls  slantwise  down  the  quiet  vale, 
And,  haply  ere  yon  loitering  sail, 

That  rounds  the  upper  headland,  falls 
Below  Deer  Island's  pines,  or  sees 
Behind  it  Hawkswood's  belt  of  trees 

Eise  black  against  the  sinking  sun, 
My  idyl  of  its  days  of  old, 
The  vaUey's  legend,  shall  be  told. 


II.      THE  HUSKING. 

It  was  the  pleasant  harvest-time, 
When  cellar-bins  are  closely  stowed, 
And  garrets  bend  beneath  their  load, 

And  the  old  swallow-haunted  barns,  — 
Brown-gabled,  long,  and  full  of  seams 
Through  which  the  nioted  sunlight  streams, 

And  winds  blow  freshly  in,  to  shake 
The  red  plumes  of  the  roosted  cocks, 
And  the  loose  hay-mow's  scented  locks,  — 

Are  filled  with  summer's  ripened  stores, 
Its  odorous  grass  and  barley  sheaves, 
From  their  low  scaffolds  to  their  eaves. 


200    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

On  Esek  Harden's  oaken  floor, 

With  many  an  autumn  threshing  worn, 
Lay  the  heaped  ears  of  unhusked  corn. 

And  thither  came  young  men  and  maids, 
Beneath  a  moon  that,  large  and  low, 
Lit  that  sweet  eve  of  long  ago. 

They  took  their  places ;  some  by  chance, 
And  others  by  a  merry  voice 
Or  sweet  smile  guided  to  their  choice. 

How  pleasantly  the  rising  moon, 
Between  the  shadow  of  the  mows, 
Looked    on    them   through  the    great    elm- 
boughs  ! 

On  sturdy  boyhood,  sun-embrowned, 
On  girlhood  with  its  solid  curves 
Of  healthful  strength  and  painless  nerves  ! 

And  jests  went  round,  and  laughs  that  made 
The  house-dog  answer  with  his  howl, 
And  kept  astir  the  barn-yard  fowl ; 

And  quaint  old  songs  their  fathers  sung 
In  Derby  dales  and  Yorkshire  moors, 
Ere  Norman  William  trod  their  shores ; 

And  tales,  whose  merry  license  shook 
The  fat  sides  of  the  Saxon  thane, 
Forgetful  of  the  hovering  Dane,  — 


MABEL  MARTIN  201 

Rude  plays  to  Celt  and  Cimbri  known, 
The  charms  and  riddles  that  beguiled 
On  Oxus'  banks  the  young  world's  child,  — 

That  primal  picture-speech  wherein 
Have  youth  and  maid  the  story  told, 
So  new  in  each,  so  dateless  old, 

Recalling  pastoral  Ruth  in  her  .  ^ 

Who  waited,  blushing  and  demure, 
The  red-ear's  kiss  of  forfeiture. 


III.      THE   WITCH'S    DAUGHTER. 

But  still  the  sweetest  voice  was  mute 
That  river-valley  ever  heard 
From  lips  of  maid  or  throat  of  bird ; 

For  Mabel  Martin  sat  apart, 

And  let  the  hay-mow's  shadow  fall 
Upon  the  loveliest  face  of  all. 

She  sat  apart,  as  one  forbid, 

Who  knew  that  none  would  condescend 
To  own  the  Witch-wife's  child  a  friend. 

The  seasons  scarce  had  gone  their  round, 
Since  curious  thousands  thronged  to  see 
Her  mother  at  the  gallows-tree  ; 

And  mocked  the  prison-palsied  limbs 
That  faltered  on  the  fatal  stairs, 
And  wan  lip  trembling  with  its  prayers ! 


202    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

Few  questioned  of  the  sorrowing  child, 
Or,  when  they  saw  the  mother  die, 
Dreamed  of  the  daughter's  agony. 

They  went  up  to  their  homes  that  day, 
As  men  and  Christians  justified : 
God  willed  it,  and  the  wretch  had  died ! 

Dear  God  and  Father  of  us  all, 
Forgive  our  faith  in  cruel  lies,  — 
Forgive  the  blindness  that  denies  ! 

Forgive  thy  creature  when  he  takes, 
For  the  all-perfect  love  Thou  art, 
Some  grim  creation  of  his  heart. 

Cast  down  our  idols,  overturn 
Our  bloody  altars;  let  us  see 
Thyself  in  Thy  humanity ! 

Young  Mabel  from  her  mother's  grave 
Crept  to  her  desolate  hearth-stone, 
And  wrestled  with  her  fate  alone ; 

With  love,  and  anger,  and  despair, 
The  phantoms  of  disordered  sense, 
The  awful  doubts  of  Providence ! 

Oh,  dreary  broke  the  winter  days, 
And  dreary  fell  the  winter  nights 
When,  one  by  one,  the  neighboring  lights 


MABEL  MARTIN  203 

Went  out,  and  human  sounds  grew  still, 
And  all  the  phantom-peopled  dark 
Closed  round  her  hearth-fire's  dying  spark. 

And  summer  days  were  sad  and  long, 
And  sad  the  uncompanioued  eves, 
And  sadder  sunset-tinted  leaves, 

And  Indian  Summer's  airs  of  balm ; 
She  scarcely  felt  the  soft  caress, 
The  beauty  died  of  loneliness  ! 

The  school-boys  jeered  her  as  they  passed, 
And,  when  she  sought  the  house  of  prayer, 
Her  mother's  curse  pursued  her  there. 

And  still  o'er  many  a  neighboring  door 
She  saw  the  horseshoe's  curved  charm, 
To  guard  against  her  mother's  harm  : 

That  mother,  poor  and  sick  and  lame, 
Who  daily,  by  the  old  arm-chair, 
Folded  her  withered  hands  in  prayer  ;  — 

Who  turned,  in  Salem's  dreary  jail, 
Her  worn  old  Bible  o'er  and  o'er, 
When  her  dim  eyes  could  read  no  more ! 

Sore  tried  and  pained,  the  poor  girl  kept 
Her  faith,  and  trusted  that  her  way, 
So  dark,  would  somewhere  meet  the  day. 


204    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

And  still  her  weary  wheel  went  round 
Day  after  day,  with  no  relief  : 
Small  leisure  have  the  poor  for  grief. 


IV.      THE   CHAMPION. 

So  in  the  shadow  Mabel  sits ; 

Untouched  by  mirth  she  sees  and  hears, 
Her  smile  is  sadder  than  her  tears. 

But  cruel  eyes  have  found  her  out, 
And  cruel  lips  repeat  her  name, 
And  taunt  her  with  her  mother's  shame. 

She  answered  not  with  railing  words, 
But  drew  her  apron  o'er  her  face, 
And,  sobbing,  glided  from  the  place. 

And  only  pausing  at  the  door, 

Her  sad  eyes  met  the  troubled  gaze 
Of  one  who,  in  her  better  days, 

Had  been  her  warm  and  steady  friend, 
Ere  yet  her  mother's  doom  had  made 
Even  Esek  Harden  half  afraid. 

He  felt  that  mute  appeal  of  tears, 
And,  starting,  with  an  angry  frown, 
Hushed  all  the  wicked  murmurs  down. 

"  Good  neighbors  mine,"  he  sternly  said, 
"  This  passes  harmless  mirth  or  jest ; 
I  brook  no  insult  to  my  guest. 


MABEL  MARTIN  205 

"  She  is  indeed  her  mother's  child ; 
But  God's  sweet  pity  ministers 
Unto  no  whiter  soul  than  hers. 

"  Let  Goody  Martin  rest  in  peace ; 
I  never  knew  her  harm  a  fly, 
And  witch  or  not,  God  knows  —  not  I. 

"  I  know  who  swore  her  life  away ; 

And  as  God  lives,  I  'd  not  condemn 
An  Indian  dog  on  word  of  them." 

The  broadest  lands  in  all  the  town, 
The  skill  to  guide,  the  power  to  awe, 
Were  Harden's  ;  and  his  word  was  law. 

None  dared  withstand  him  to  his  face, 
But  one  sly  maiden  spake  aside  : 
"  The  little  witch  is  evil-eyed ! 

"  Her  mother  only  killed  a  cow, 

Or  witched  a  churn  or  dairy-pan  ; 

But  she,  forsooth,  must  charm  a  man  !  " 

V.      IN   THE   SHADOW. 

Poor  Mabel,  homeward  turning,  passed 
The  nameless  terrors  of  the  wood, 
And  saw,  as  if  a  ghost  pursued, 

Her  shadow  gliding  in  the  moon  ; 

The  soft  breath  of  the  west-wind  gave 
A  chill  as  from  her  mother's  grave. 


206    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

How  dreary  seemed  the  silent  house  ! 
Wide  in  the  moonbeams'  ghastly  glare 
Its  windows  had  a  dead  man's  stare ! 

And,  like  a  gaunt  and  spectral  hand, 
The  tremulous  shadow  of  a  birch 
Reached    out    and    touched   the    door's   low 
porch, 

As  if  to  lift  its  latch ;  hard  by, 
A  sudden  warning  call  she  heard, 
The  night-cry  of  a  boding  bird. 

She  leaned  against  the  door ;  her  face, 
So  fair,  so  young,  so  full  of  pain, 
White  in  the  moonlight's  silver  rain. 

The  river,  on  its  pebbled  rim, 

Made  music  such  as  childhood  knew ; 
The  door-yard  tree  was  whispered  through 

By  voices  such  as  childhood's  ear 
Had  heard  in  moonlights  long  ago ; 
And  through  the  willow-boughs  below 

She  saw  the  rippled  waters  shine ; 
Beyond,  in  waves  of  shade  and  light, 
The  hills  rolled  off  into  the  night. 

She  saw  and  heard,  but  over  all 
A  sense  of  some  transforming  spell, 
The  shadow  of  her  sick  heart  fell. 


Mabel  Martin 


MABEL  MARTIN  207 

And  still  across  the  wooded  space 
The  harvest  lights  of  Harden  shone, 
And  song  and  jest  and  laugh  went  on. 

And  he,  so  gentle,  true,  and  strong, 
Of  men  the  bravest  and  the  best, 
Had  he,  too,  scorned  her  with  the  rest  ? 

She  strove  to  drown  her  sense  of  wrong, 
And,  in  her  old  and  simple  way, 
To  teach  her  bitter  heart  to  pray. 

Poor  child !  the  prayer,  begun  in  faith, 
Grew  to  a  low,  despairing  cry 
Of  utter  misery :  "  Let  me  die ! 

Oh  !  take  me  from  the  scornful  eyes, 
And  hide  me  where  the  cruel  speech 
And  mocking  finger  may  not  reach  ! 

I  dare  riot  breathe  my  mother's  name : 
A  daughter's  right  I  dare  not  crave 
To  weep  above  her  unblest  grave  ! 

Let  me  not  live  until  my  heart, 
With  few  to  pity,  and  with  none 
To  love  me,  hardens  into  stone. 

O  God  !  have  mercy  on  Thy  child, 

Whose    faith   in   Thee    grows   weak    and 

small, 
And  take  me  ere  I  lose  it  all !  " 


208    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

A  shadow  on  the  moonlight  fell, 

And  murmuring  wind  and  wave  became 
A  voice  whose  burden  was  her  name. 


VI.      THE   BETROTHAL. 

Had  then  God  heard  her?     Had  He  sent 
His  angel  down  ?     In  flesh  and  blood, 
Before  her  Esek  Harden  stood  ! 

He  laid  his  hand  upon  her  arm  : 

"  Dear  Mabel,  this  no  more  shall  be  ; 
Who  scoffs  at  you  must  scoff  at  me. 

"  You  know  rough  Esek  Harden  well ; 
And  if  he  seems  no  suitor  gay, 
And  if  his  hair  is  touched  with  gray, 

"  The  maiden  grown  shall  never  find 

His  heart  less  warm  than  when  she  smiled, 
Upon  his  knees,  a  little  child ! " 

Her  tears  of  grief  were  tears  of  joy, 
As,  folded  in  his  strong  embrace, 
She  looked  in  Esek  Harden' s  face. 

"  O  truest  friend  of  all !  "  she  said, 

"  God  bless  you  for  your  kindly  thought, 
And  make  me  worthy  of  my  lot !  " 

He  led  her  forth,  and,  blent  in  one, 
Beside  their  happy  pathway  ran 
The  shadows  of  the  maid  and  man. 


MABEL  MARTIN  209 

He  led  her  through  his  dewy  fields, 

To  where  the  swinging  lanterns  glowed, 
And  through  the  doors  the  huskers  showed. 

"  Good  friends  and  neighbors  !  "  Esek  said, 
"  I  'm  weary  of  this  lonely  life  ; 
In  Mabel  see  my  chosen  wife  I 

"  She  greets  you  kindly,  one  and  all ; 
The  past  is  past,  and  all  offence 
Falls  harmless  from  her  innocence. 

"  Henceforth  she  stands  no  more  alone ; 
You  know  what  Esek  Harden  is  ;  — 
He  brooks  no  wrong  to  him  or  his. 

"  Now  let  the  merriest  tales  be  told, 
And  let  the  sweetest  songs  be  sung 
That  ever  made  the  old  heart  young ! 

"  For  now  the  lost  has  found  a  home ; 

And  a  lone  hearth  shall  brighter  burn, 
As  all  the  household  joys  return !  " 

Oh,  pleasantly  the  harvest-moon, 
Between  the  shadow  of  the  mows, 
Looked   on   them    through    the    great    elm- 
boughs  ! 

On  Mabel's  curls  of  golden  hair, 
On  Esek's  shaggy  strength  it  fell ; 
And  the  wind  whispered,  "  It  is  well ! " 


210    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 


THE  PROPHECY  OF  SAMUEL  SEWALL. 

The  prose  version  of  this  prophecy  is  to  be  found  in  Se wall's 
The  New  Heaven  upon  the  New  Earth,  1697,  quoted  in  Joshua 
Coffin's  History  of  Newbury.  Judge  Sewall's  father,  Henry 
Sewall,  was  one  of  the  pioneers  of  Newbury. 

UP  and  down  the  village  streets 

Strange  are  the  forms  my  fancy  meets, 

For  the  thoughts  and  things  of  to-day  are  hid, 

And  through  the  veil  of  a  closed  lid 

The  ancient  worthies  I  see  again  : 

I  hear  the  tap  of  the  elder's  cane, 

And  his  awful  periwig  I  see, 

And  the  silver  buckles  of  shoe  and  knee. 

Stately  and  slow,  with  thoughtful  air, 

His  black  cap  hiding  his  whitened  hair, 

Walks  the  Judge  of  the  great  Assize, 

Samuel  Sewall  the  good  and  wise. 

His  face  with  lines  of  firmness  wrought, 

He  wears  the  look  of  a  man  unbought, 

Who  swears  to  his  hurt  and  changes  not; 

Yet,  touched  and  softened  nevertheless 

With  the  grace  of  Christian  gentleness, 

The  face  that  a  child  would  climb  to  kiss ! 

True  and  tender  and  brave  and  just, 

That  man  might  honor  and  woman  trust. 

Touching  and  sad,  a  tale  is  told, 
Like  a  penitent  hymn  of  the  Psalmist  old, 
Of  the  fast  which  the  good  man  lifelong  kept 10 
With  a  haunting  sorrow  that  never  slept, 
As  the  circling  year  brought  round  the  time 
Of  an  error  that  left  the  sting  of  crime, 


THE  PROPHECY  OF  SAMUEL   SEW  ALL     211 

When   he   sat   on   the    bench   of    the   witchcraft 

courts, 

With  the  laws  of  Moses  and  Hale's  Reports, 
And  spake,  in  the  name  of  both,  the  word 
That  gave  the  witch's  neck  to  the  cord, 
And  piled  the  oaken  planks  that  pressed 
The  feeble  life  from  the  warlock's  breast ! 
All  the  day  long,  from  dawn  to  dawn, 
His  door  was  bolted,  his  curtain  drawn ; 
No  foot  on  his  silent  threshold  trod, 
No  eye  looked  o*n  him  save  that  of  God, 
As  he  baffled  the  ghosts  of  the  dead  with  charms 
Of  penitent  tears,  and  prayers,  and  psalms, 
And,  with  precious  proofs  from  the  sacred  word 
Of  the  boundless  pity  and  love  of  the  Lord, 
His  faith  confirmed  and  his  trust  renewed 
That  the  sin  of  his  ignorance,  sorely  rued, 
Might  be  washed  away  in  the  mingled  flood 
Of  his  human  sorrow  and  Christ's  dear  blood! 

Green  forever  the  memory  be 
Of  the  Judge  of  the  old  Theocracy, 
Whom  even  his  errors  glorified, 
Like  a  far-seen,  sunlit  mountain-side 
By  the  cloudy  shadows  which  o'er  it  glide! 
Honor  and  praise  to  the  Puritan 
Who  the  halting  step  of  his  age  outran, 
And,  seeing  the  infinite  worth  of  man 
In  the  priceless  gift  the  Father  gave, 
In  the  infinite  love  that  stooped  to  save, 
Dared  not  brand  his  brother  a  slave  ! 
"  Who  doth  such  wrong,"  he  was  wont  to  say, 
In  his  own  quaint,  picture-loving  way, 


212    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

"  Flings  up  to  Heaven  a  hand-grenade 

Which  God  shall  cast  down  upon  his  head  !  " 

Widely  as  heaven  and  hell,  contrast 
That  brave  old  jurist  of  the  past 
And  the  cunning  trickster  and  knave  of  courts 
Who  the  holy  features  of  Truth  distorts,  — 
Ruling  as  right  the  will  of  the  strong, 
Poverty,  crime,  and  weakness  wrong ; 
Wide-eared  to  power,  to  the  wronged  and  weak 
Deaf  as  Egypt's  gods  of  leek  ;   ' 
Scoffing  aside  at  party's  nod 
Order  of  nature  and  law  of  God ; 
For  whose  dabbled  ermine  respect  were  waste, 
Reverence  folly,  and  awe  misplaced  ; 
Justice  of  whom  't  were  vain  to  seek 
As  from  Koordish  robber  or  Syrian  Sheik ! 
Oh,  leave  the  wretch  to  his  bribes  and  sins ; 
Let  him  rot  in  the  web  of  lies  he  spins ! 
To  the  saintly  soul  of  the  early  day, 
To  the  Christian  judge,  let  us  turn  and  say : 
"  Praise  and  thanks  for  an  honest  man !  — 
Glory  to  God  for  the  Puritan  !  " 

I  see,  far  southward,  this  quiet  day, 
The  hills  of  Newbury  rolling  away, 
With  the  many  tints  of  the  season  gay, 
Dreamily  blending  in  autumn  mist 
Crimson,  and  gold,  and  amethyst. 
Long  and  low,  with  dwarf  trees  crowned, 
Plum  Island  lies,  like  a  whale  aground, 
A  stone's  toss  over  the  narrow  sound. 


THE  PROPHECY  OF  SAMUEL  SEWALL  213 

Inland,  as  far  as  the  eye  can  go, 

The  hills  curve  round  like  a  bended  bow ; 

A  silver  arrow  from  out  them  sprung, 

I  see  the  shine  of  the  Quasycung ; 

And,  round  and  round,  over  valley  and  hill, 

Old  roads  winding,  as  old  roads  will, 

Here  to  a  ferry,  and  there  to  a  mill ; 

And  glimpses  of  chimneys  and  gabled  eaves, 

Through  green  elm  arches  and  maple  leaves,  — 

Old  homesteads  sacred  to  all  that  can 

Gladden  or  sadden  the  heart  of  man, 

Over  whose  thresholds  of  oak  and  stone 

Life  and  Death  have  come  and  gone  ! 

There  pictured  tiles  in  the  fireplace  show, 

Great  beams  sag  from  the  ceiling  low, 

The  dresser  glitters  with  polished  wares, 

The  long  clock  ticks  on  the  foot-worn  stairs, 

And  the  low,  broad  chimney  shows  the  crack 

By  the  earthquake  made  a  century  back. 

Up  from  their  midst  springs  the  village  spire 

With  the  crest  of  its  cock  in  the  sun  afire ; 

Beyond  are  orchards  and  planting  lands, 

And  great  salt  marshes  and  glimmering  sands, 

And,  where  north  and  south  the  coast-lines  run, 

The  blink  of  the  sea  in  breeze  and  sun ! 

I  see  it  all  like  a  chart  unrolled, 
But  my  thoughts  are  full  of  the  past  and  old, 
I  hear  the  tales  of  my  boyhood  told  ; 
And  the  shadows  and  shapes  of  early  days 
Flit  dimly  by  in  the  veiling  haze, 
With  measured  movement  and  rhythmic  chime 
Weaving  like  shuttles  my  web  of  rhyme. 


214    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

I  think  of  the  old  man  wise  and  good 
Who  once  on  yon  misty  hillsides  stood, 
(A  poet  who  never  measured  rhyme, 
A  seer  unknown  to  his  dull-eared  time,) 
And,  propped  on  his  staff  of  age,  looked  down, 
With  his  boyhood's  love,  on  his  native  town, 
Where,  written,  as  if  on  its  hills  and  plains, 
His  burden  of  prophecy  yet  remains, 
For  the  voices  of  wood,  and  wave,  and  wind 
To  read  in  the  ear  of  the  musing  mind :  — 

"  As  long  as  Plum  Island,  to  guard  the  coast 
As  God  appointed,  shall  keep  its  post ; 
As  long  as  a  salmon  shall  haunt  the  deep 
Of  Merrimac  River,  or  sturgeon  leap  ; 
As  long  as  pickerel  swift  and  slim, 
Or  red-backed  perch,  in  Crane  Pond  swim ; 
As  long  as  the  annual  sea-fowl  know 
Their  time  to  come  and  their  time  to  go ; 
As  long  as  cattle  shall  roam  at  will 
The  green,  grass  meadows  by  Turkey  Hill ; 
As  long  as  sheep  shall  look  from  the  side 
Of  Oldtown  Hill  on  marishes  wide, 
And  Parker  River,  and  salt-sea  tide ; 
As  long  as  a  wandering  pigeon  shall  search 
The  fields  below  from  his  white-oak  perch, 
When  the  barley-harvest  is  ripe  and  shorn, 
And  the  dry  husks  fall  f i-om  the  standing  corn  ; 
As  long  as  Nature  shall  not  grow  old, 
Nor  drop  her  work  from  her  doting  hold, 
And  her  care  for  the  Indian  corn  forget, 
And  the  yellow  rows  in  pairs  to  set ;  — 
So  long  shall  Christians  here  be  born, 
Grow  up  and  ripen  as  God's  sweet  corn !  — 


THE  RED  RIVER    VOYAGEUR  215 

By  the  beak  of  bird,  by  the  breath  of  frost, 
Shall  never  a  holy  ear  be  lost, 
But,  husked  by  Death  in  the  Planter's  sight, 
Be  sown  again  in  the  fields  of  light !  " 

The  Island  still  is  purple  with  plums, 
Up  the  river  the  salmon  comes, 
The  sturgeon  leaps,  and  the  wild-fowl  feeds 
On  hillside  berries  and  marish  seeds,  — 
All  the  beautiful  signs  remain, 
From  spring-time  sowing  to  autumn  rain 
The  good  man's  vision  returns  again ! 
And  let  us  hope,  as  well  we  can, 
That  the  Silent  Angel  who  garners  man 
May  find  some  grain  as  of  old  he  found 
In  the  human  cornfield  ripe  and  sound, 
And  the  Lord  of  the  Harvest  deign  to  own 
The  precious  seed  by  the  fathers  sown  ! 
1859. 


THE  BED  RIVER  VOYAGEUR. 

OUT  and  in  the  river  is  winding 
The  links  of  its  long,  red  chain, 

Through  belts  of  dusky  pine-land 
And  gusty  leagues  of  plain. 

Only,  at  times,  a  smoke-wreath 
With  the  drifting  cloud-rack  joins, 

The  smoke  of  the  hunting-lodges 
Of  the  wild  Assiniboins  ! 

Drearily  blows  the  north-wind 
From  the  land  of  ice  and  snow ; 


216     NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

The  eyes  that  look  are  weary, 
And  heavy  the  hands  that  row. 

And  with  one  foot  on  the  water, 

And  one  upon  the  shore, 
The  Angel  of  Shadow  gives  warning 

That  day  shall  be  no  more. 

Is  it  the  clang  of  wild-geese  ? 

Is  it  the  Indian's  yell, 
That  lends  to  the  voice  of  the  north-wind 

The  tones  of  a  far-off  bell  ? 

The  voyageur  smiles  as  he  listens 
To  the  sound  that  grows  apace  ; 

Well  he  knows  the  vesper  ringing 
Of  the  bells  of  St.  Boniface. 

The  bells  of  the  Roman  Mission, 
That  call  from  their  turrets  twain, 

To  the  boatman  on  the  river, 
To  the  hunter  on  the  plain ! 

Even  so  in  our  mortal  journey 

The  bitter  north-winds  blow, 
And  thus  upon  life's  Red  River 

Our  hearts,  as  oarsmen,  row. 

And  when  the  Angel  of  Shadow 
Rests  his  feet  on  wave  and  shore, 

And  our  eyes  grow  dim  with  watching 
And  our  hearts  faint  at  the  oar, 


THE  PREACHER  217 

Happy  is  he  who  heareth 

The  signal  of  his  release 
In  the  bells  of  the  Holy  City, 

The  chimes  of  eternal  peace ! 


THE   PREACHER. 

George  Whitefield,  the  celebrated  preacher,  died  at  Newbury- 
port  in  1770,  and  was  buried  under  the  church  which  has  since 
borne  bis  name. 

ITS  windows  flashing  to  the  sky, 
Beneath  a  thousand  roofs  of  brown, 
Far  down  the  vale,  my  friend  and  I 
Beheld  the  old  and  quiet  town  ; 
The  ghostly  sails  that  out  at  sea 
Flapped  their  white  wings  of  mystery ; 
The  beaches  glimmering  in  the  sun, 
And  the  low  wooded  capes  that  run 
Into  the  sea-mist  north  and  south  ; 
The  sand-bluffs  at  the  river's  mouth ; 
The  swinging  chain-bridge,  and,  afar, 
The  foam-line  of  the  harbor-bar. 

Over  the  woods  and  meadow-lands 

A  crimson-tinted  shadow  lay, 

Of  clouds  through  which  the  setting  day 

Flung  a  slant  glory  far  away. 

It  glittered  on  the  wet  sea-sands, 

It  flamed  upon  the  city's  panes, 

Smote  the  white  sails  of  ships  that  wore 


218    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

Outward  or  in,  and  glided  o'er 

The  steeples  with  their  veering  vanes  ! 

Awhile  my  friend  with  rapid  search 

O'erran  the  landscape.     "  Yonder  spire 

Over  gray  roofs,  a  shaft  of  fire  ; 

What  is  it,  pray  ?  "  —  "  The  Whitefield  Church  ! 

Walled  about  by  its  basement  stones, 

There  rest  the  marvellous  prophet's  bones." 

Then  as  our  homeward  way  we  walked, 

Of  the  great  preacher's  life  we  talked  ; 

And  through  the  mystery  of  our  theme 

The  outward  glory  seemed  to  stream, 

And  Nature's  self  interpreted 

The  doubtful  record  of  the  dead  ; 

And  every  level  beam  that  smote 

The  sails  upon  the  dark  afloat 

A  symbol  of  the  light  became, 

Which  touched  the  shadows  of  our  blame, 

With  tongues  of  Pentecostal  flame. 

Over  the  roofs  of  the  pioneers 
Gathers  the  moss  of  a  hundred  years  ; 
On  man  and  his  works  has  passed  the  change 
Which  needs  must  be  in  a  century's  range. 
The  land  lies  open  and  warm  in  the  sun, 
Anvils  clamor  and  mill-wheels  run,  — 
Flocks  on  the  hillsides,  herds  on  the  plain, 
The  wilderness  gladdened  with  fruit  and  grain ! 
But  the  living  faith  of  the  settlers  old 
A  dead  profession  their  children  hold  ; 
To  the  lust  of  office  and  greed  of  trade 
A  stepping-stone  is  the  altar  made. 


THE  PREACHER  219 

The  Church,  to  place  and  power  the  door, 

Eebukes  the  sin  of  the  world  no  more, 

Nor  sees  its  Lord  in  the  homeless  poor. 

Everywhere  is  the  grasping  hand, 

And  eager  adding  of  land  to  land  ; 

And  earth,  which  seemed  to  the  fathers  meant 

But  as  a  pilgrim's  wayside  tent,  — 

A  nightly  shelter  to  fold  away 

When  the  Lord  should  call  at  the  break  of  day,  — 

Solid  and  steadfast  seems  to  be, 

And  Time  has  forgotten  Eternity ! 

But  fresh  and  green  from  the  rotting  roots 
Of  primal  forests  the  young  growth  shoots ; 
From  the  death  of  the  old  the  new  proceeds, 
And  the  life  of  truth  from  the  rot  of  creeds : 
On  the  ladder  of  God,  which  upward  leads, 
The  steps  of  progress  are  human  needs. 
For  His  judgments  still  are  a  mighty  deep, 
And  the  eyes  of  His  providence  never  sleep : 
When  the  night  is  darkest  He  gives  the  morn  ; 
When  the  famine  is  sorest,  the  wine  and  corn  ! 

In  the  church  of  the  wilderness  Edwards  wrought, 

Shaping  his  creed  at  the  forge  of  thought ; 

And  with  Thor's  own  hammer  welded  and  bent 

The  iron  links  of  his  argument, 

Which  strove  to  grasp  in  its  mighty  span 

The  purpose  of  God  and  the  fate  of  man  ! 

Yet  faithful  still,  in  his  daily  round 

To  the  weak,  and  the  poor,  and  sin-sick  found, 

The  schoolman's  lore  and  the  casuist's  art 

Drew  warmth  and  life  from  his  fervent  heart. 


220  NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

Had  he  not  seen  in  the  solitudes 

Of  his  deep  and  dark  Northampton  woods 

A  vision  of  love  about  him  fall  ? 

Not  the  blinding  splendor  which  fell  on  Saul, 

But  the  tenderer  glory  that  rests  on  them 

Who  walk  in  the  New  Jerusalem, 

Where  never  the  sun  nor  moon  are  known, 

But  the  Lord  and  His  love  are  the  light  alone ! 

And  watching  the  sweet,  still  countenance 

Of  the  wife  of  his  bosom  rapt  in  trance, 

Had  he  not  treasured  each  broken  word 

Of  the  mystical  wonder  seen  and  heard  ; 

And  loved  the  beautiful  dreamer  more 

That  thus  to  the  desert  of  earth  she  bore 

Clusters  of  Eshcol  from  Canaan's  shore  ? 

As  the  barley- winnower,  holding  with  pain 
Aloft  in  waiting  his  chaff  and  grain, 
Joyfully  welcomes  the  far-off  breeze 
Sounding  the  pine-tree's  slender  keys, 
So  he  who  had  waited  long  to  hear 
The  sound  of  the  Spirit  drawing  near, 
Like  that  which  the  son  of  Iddo  heard 
When  the  feet  of  angels  the  myrtles  stirred, 
Felt  the  answer  of  prayer,  at  last, 
As  over  his  church  the  afflatus  passed, 
Breaking  its  sleep  as  breezes  break 
To  sun-bright  ripples  a  stagnant  lake. 

At  first  a  tremor  of  silent  fear, 
The  creep  of  the  flesh  at  danger  near, 
A  vague  foreboding  and  discontent, 
Over  the  hearts  of  the  people  went. 


THE  PREACHER  221 

All  nature  warned  in  sounds  and  signs  : 
The  wind  in  the  tops  of  the  forest  pines 
In  the  name  of  the  Highest  called  to  prayer, 
As  the  muezzin  calls  from  the  minaret  stair. 
Through  ceiled  chambers  of  secret  sin 
Sudden  and  strong  the  light. shone  in  ; 
A  guilty  sense  of  his  neighbor's  needs 
Startled  the  man  of  title-deeds  ; 
The  trembling  hand  of  the  worldling  shook 
The  dust  of  years  from  the  Holy  Book  ; 
And  the  psalms  of  David,  forgotten  long, 
Took  the  place  of  the  scoffer's  song. 

The  impulse  spread  like  the  outward  course 
Of  waters  moved  by  a  central  force ; 
The  tide  of  spiritual  life  rolled  down 
From  inland  mountains  to  seaboard  town. 

Prepared  and  ready  the  altar  stands 

Waiting  the  prophet's  outstretched  hands 

And  prayer  availing,  to  downward  call 

The  fiery  answer  in  view  of  all. 

Hearts  are  like  wax  in  the  furnace ;  who 

Shall  mould,  and  shape,  and  cast  them  anew  ? 

Lo  !  by  the  Merrimac  Whitefield  stands 

In  the  temple  that  never  was  made  by  hands,  — 

Curtains  of  azure,  and  crystal  wall, 

And  dome  of  the  sunshine  over  all  — 

A  homeless  pilgrim,  with  dubious  name 

Blown  about  on  the  winds  of  fame ; 

Now  as  an  angel  of  blessing  classed, 

And  now  as  a  mad  enthusiast. 

Called  in  his  youth  to  sound  and  gauge 

The  moral  lapse  of  his  race  and  age, 


222    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

And,  sharp  as  truth,  the  contrast  draw 
Of  human  frailty  and  perfect  law ; 
Possessed  by  the  one  dread  thought  that  lent 
Its  goad  to  his  fiery  temperament, 
Up  and  down  the  world  he  went, 
A  John  the  Baptist  crying,  Repent  I 

No  perfect  whole  can  our  nature  make ; 
Here  or  there  the  circle  will  break ; 
The  orb  of  life  as  it  takes  the  light 
On  one  side  leaves  the  other  in  night. 
Never  was  saint  so  good  and  great 
As  to  give  no  chance  at  St.  Peter's  gate 
For  the  plea  of  the  Devil's  advocate. 
So,  incomplete  by  his  being's  law, 
The  marvellous  preacher  had  his  flaw ; 
With  step  unequal,  and  lame  with  faults, 
His  shade  on  the  path  of  History  halts. 

Wisely  and  well  said  the  Eastern  bard : 
Fear  is  easy,  but  love  is  hard,  — 
Easy  to  glow  with  the  Santon's  rage, 
And  walk  on  the  Meccan  pilgrimage  ; 
But  he  is  greatest  and  best  who  can 
Worship  Allah  by  loving  man. 

Thus  he,  —  to  whom,  in  the  painful  stress 
Of  zeal  on  fire  from  its  own  excess, 
Heaven  seemed  so  vast  and  earth  so  small 
That  man  was  nothing,  since  God  was  all,  — 
Forgot,  as  the  best  at  times  have  done, 
That  the  love  of  the  Lord  and  of  man  are  one. 
Little  to  him  whose  feet  unshod 
The  thorny  path  of  the  desert  trod, 


THE  PREACHER  223 

Careless  of  pain,  so  it  led  to  God, 
Seemed  the  hunger-pang  and  the  poor  man's  wrong, 
The  weak  ones  trodden  beneath  the  strong. 
Should  the  worm  be  chooser  ?  —  the  clay  withstand 
The  shaping  will  of  the  potter's  hand  ? 

In  the  Indian  fable  Arjoon  hears 
The  scorn  of  a  god  rebuke  his  fears  : 
"  Spare  thy  pity  !  "  Krishna  saith  ; 
"  Not  in  thy  sword  is  the  power  of  death ! 
All  is  illusion,  —  loss  but  seems ; 
Pleasure  and  pain  are  only  dreams ; 
Who  deems  he  slayeth  doth  not  kill ; 
Who  counts  as  slain  is  living  still. 
Strike,  nor  fear  thy  blow  is  crime ; 
Nothing  dies  but  the  cheats  of  time ; 
Slain  or  slayer,  small  the  odds 
To  each,  immortal  as  Indra's  gods !  " 

So  by  Savannah's  banks  of  shade, 
The  stones  of  his  mission  the  preacher  laid 
On  the  heart  of  the  negro  crushed  and  rent, 
And  made  of  his  blood  the  wall's  cement ; 
Bade  the  slave-ship  speed  from  coast  to  coast, 
Fanned  by  the  wings  of  the  Holy  Ghost ; 
And  begged,  for  the  love  of  Christ,  the  gold 
Coined  from  the  hearts  in  its  groaning  hold. 
What  could  it  matter,  more  or  less 
Of  stripes,  and  hunger,  and  weariness? 
Living  or  dying,  bond  or  free, 
What  was  time  to  eternity  ? 

Alas  for  the  preacher's  cherished  schemes  ! 
Mission  and  church  are  now  but  dreams  ; 


224   NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

Nor  prayer  nor  fasting  availed  the  plan 
To  honor  God  through  the  wrong  of  man. 
Of  all  his  labors  no  trace  remains 
Save  the  bondman  lifting  his  hands  in  chains. 
The  woof  he  wove  in  the  righteous  warp 
Of  freedom-loving  Oglethorpe, 
Clothes  with  curses  the  goodly  land, 
Changes  its  greenness  and  bloom  to  sand  ; 
And  a  century's  lapse  reveals  once  more 
The  slave-ship  stealing  to  Georgia's  shore. 
Father  of  Light  I  how  blind  is  he 
Who  sprinkles  the  altar  he  rears  to  Thee 
"With  the  blood  and  tears  of  humanity ! 

He  erred  :  shall  we  count  His  gifts  as  naught  ? 
Was  the  work  of  God  in  him  unwrought  ? 
The  servant  may  through  his  deafness  err, 
And  blind  may  be  God's  messenger ; 
But  the  errand  is  sure  they  go  upon,  — 
The  word  is  spoken,  the  deed  is  done. 
Was  the  Hebrew  temple  less  fair  and  good 
That  Solomon  bowed  to  gods  of  wood  ? 
For  his  tempted  heart  and  wandering  feet, 
Were  the  songs  of  David  less  pure  and  sweet? 
So  in  light  and  shadow  the  preacher  went, 
God's  erring  and  human  instrument ; 
And  the  hearts  of  the  people  where  he  passed 
Swayed  as  the  reeds  sway  in  the  blast, 
Under  the  spell  of  a  voice  which  took 
In  its  compass  the  flow  of  Siloa's  brook, 
And  the  mystical  chime  of  the  bells  of  gold 
On  the  ephod's  hem  of  the  priest  of  old,  — 
Now  the  roll  of  thunder,  and  now  the  awe 
Of  the  trumpet  heard  in  the  Mount  of  Law. 


THE  PREACHER  225 

A  solemn  fear  on  the  listening  crowd 

Fell  like  the  shadow  of  a  cloud. 

The  sailor  reeling  from  out  the  ships 

Whose  masts  stood  thick  in  the  river-slips 

Felt  the  jest  and  the  curse  die  on  his  lips. 

Listened  the  fisherman  rude  and  hard, 

The  calker  rough  from  the  builder's  yard ; 

The  man  of  the  market  left  his  load, 

The  teamster  leaned  on  his  bending  goad, 

The  maiden,  and  youth  beside  her,  felt 

Their  hearts  in  a  closer  union  melt, 

And  saw  the  flowers  of  their  love  in  bloom 

Down  the  endless  vistas  of  life  to  come. 

Old  age  sat  feebly  brushing  away 

From  his  ears  the  scanty  locks  of  gray  ; 

And  careless  boyhood,  living  the  free 

Unconscious  life  of  bird  and  tree, 

Suddenly  wakened  to  a  sense 

Of  sin  and  its  guilty  consequence. 

It  was  as  if  an  angel's  voice 

Called  the  listeners  up  for  their  final  choice ; 

As  if  a  strong  hand  rent  apart 

The  veils  of  sense  from  soul  and  heart, 

Showing  in  light  ineffable 

The  joys  of  heaven  and  woes  of  hell ! 

All  about  in  the  misty  air 

The  hills  seemed  kneeling  in  silent  prayer ; 

The  rustle  of  leaves,  the  moaning  sedge, 

The  water's  lap  on  its  gravelled  edge, 

The  wailing  pines,  and,  far  and  faint, 

The  wood-dove's  note  of  sad  complaint,  — 

To  the  solemn  voice  of  the  preacher  lent 

An  undertone  as  of  low  lament ; 


226    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

And  the  rote  of  the  sea  from  its  sandy  coast, 
On  the  easterly  wind,  now  heard,  now  lost, 
Seemed  the  murmurous  sound  of  the  judgment  host 

Yet  wise  men  doubted,  and  good  men  wept, 

As  that  storm  of  passion  above  them  swept, 

And,  comet-like,  adding  flame  to  flame, 

The  priests  of  the  new  Evangel  came,  — 

Davenport,  flashing  upon  the  crowd, 

Charged  like  summer's  electric  cloud, 

Now  holding  the  listener  still  as  death 

With  terrible  warnings  under  breath, 

Now  shouting  for  joy,  as  if  he  viewed 

The  vision  of  Heaven's  beatitude  ! 

And  Celtic  Tennant,  his  long  coat  bound 

Like  a  monk's  with  leathern  girdle  round, 

Wild  with  the  toss  of  unshorn  hair, 

And  wringing  of  hands,  and  eyes  aglare, 

Groaning  under  the  world's  despair  ! 

Grave  pastors,  grieving  their  flocks  to  lose, 

Prophesied  to  the  empty  pews 

That  gourds  would  wither,  and  mushrooms  die, 

And  noisiest  fountains  run  soonest  dry, 

Like  the  spring  that  gushed  in  Newbury  Street, 

Under  the  tramp  of  the  earthquake's  feet, 

A  silver  shaft  in  the  air  and  light, 

For  a  single  day,  then  lost  in  night, 

Leaving  only,  its  place  to  tell, 

Sandy  fissure  and  sulphurous  smell. 

With  zeal  wing-clipped  and  white-heat  cool, 

Moved  by  the  spirit  in  grooves  of  rule, 

No  longer  harried,  and  cropped,  and  fleeced, 

Flogged  by  sheriff  and  cursed  by  priest, 


THE  PREACHER  227 

But  by  wiser  counsels  left  at  ease 
To  settle  quietly  on  his  lees, 
And,  self-concentred,  to  count  as  done 
The  work  which  his  fathers  well  begun, 
In  silent  protest  of  letting  alone, 
The  Quaker  kept  the  way  of  his  own,  — 
A  non-conductor  among  the  wires, 
With  coat  of  asbestos  proof  to  fires. 
And  quite  unable  to  mend  his  pace 
To  catch  the  falling  manna  of  grace, 
He  hugged  the  closer  his  little  store 
Of  faith,  and  silently  prayed  for  more. 
And  vague  of  creed  and  barren  of  rite, 
But  holding,  as  in  his  Master's  sight, 
Act  and  thought  to  the  inner  light, 
The  round  of  his  simple  duties  walked, 
And  strove  to  live  what  the  others  talked. 

And  who  shall  marvel  if  evil  went 
Step  by  step  with  the  good  intent, 
And  with  love  and  meekness,  side  by  side, 
Lust  of  the  flesh  and  spiritual  pride  ?  — 
That  passionate  longings  and  fancies  vain 
Set  the  heart  on  fire  and  crazed  the  brain? 
That  over  the  holy  oracles 
Folly  sported  with  cap  and  bells  ? 
That  goodly  women  and  learned  men 
Marvelling  told  with  tongue  and  pen 
How  unweaned  children  chirped  like  birds 
Texts  of  Scripture  and  solemn  words, 
Like  the  infant  seers  of  the  rocky  glens 
In  the  Puy  de  Dome  of  wild  Cevennes : 
Or  baby  Lamas  who  pray  and  preach 
From  Tartar  cradles  in  Buddha's  speech? 


228    NARRATIVE   AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

In  the  war  which  Truth  or  Freedom  wages 
With  impious  fraud  and  the  wrong  of  ages, 
Hate  and  malice  and  self-love  mar 
The  notes  of  triumph  with  painful  jar, 
And  the  helping  angels  turn  aside 
Their  sorrowing  faces  the  shame  to  hide. 
Never  on  custom's  oiled  grooves 
The  world  to  a  higher  level  moves, 
Bat  grates  and  grinds  with  friction  hard 
On  granite  boulder  and  flinty  shard. 
The  heart  must  bleed  before  it  feels, 
The  pool  be  troubled  before  it  heals  ; 
Ever  by  losses  the  right  must  gain, 
Every  good  have  its  birth  of  pain  ; 
The  active  Virtues  blush  to  find 
The  Vices  wearing  their  badge  behind, 
And  Graces  and  Charities  feel  the  fire 
Wherein  the  sins  of  the  age  expire ; 
The  fiend  still  rends  as  of  old  he  rent 
The  tortured  body  from  which  he  went. 

But  Time  tests  all.     In  the  over-drift 
And  flow  of  the  Nile,  with  its  annual  gift, 
Who  cares  for  the  Hadji's  relics  sunk? 
Who  thinks  of  the  drowned-out  Coptic  monk  ? 
The  tide  that  loosens  the  temple's  stones, 
And  scatters  the  sacred  ibis-bones, 
Drives  away  from  the  valley-land 
That  Arab  robber,  the  wandering  sand, 
Moistens  the  fields  that  know  no  rain, 
Fringes  the  desert  with  belts  of  grain, 
And  bread  to  the  sower  brings  again. 


THE  PREACHER  229 

So  the  flood  of  emotion  deep  and  strong 
Troubled  the  land  as  it  swept  along, 
But  left  a  result  of  holier  lives, 
Tenderer  mothers  and  worthier  wives. 
The  husband  and  father  whose  children  fled 
And  sad  wife  wept  when  his  drunken  tread 
Frightened  peace  from  his  roof-tree's  shade, 
And  a  rock  of  offence  his  hearthstone  made, 
In  a  strength  that  was  not  his  own  began 
To  rise  from  the  brute's  to  the  plane  of  man. 
Old  friends  embraced,  long  held  apart 
By  evil  counsel  and  pride  of  heart ; 
And  penitence  saw  through  misty  tears, 
In  the  bow  of  hope  on  its  cloud  of  fears, 
The  promise  of  Heaven's  eternal  years,  — 
The  peace  of  God  for  the  world's  annoy, — 
Beauty  for  ashes,  and  oil  of  joy ! 

Under  the  church  of  Federal  Street, 

Under  the  tread  of  its  Sabbath  feet, 

Walled  about  by  its  basement  stones, 

Lie  the  marvellous  preacher's  bones. 

No  saintly  honors  to  them  are  shown, 

No  sign  nor  miracle  have  they  known ; 

But  he  who  passes  the  ancient  church 

Stops  in  the  shade  of  its  belfry-porch, 

And  ponders  the  wonderful  life  of  him 

Who  lies  at  rest  in  that  charnel  dim. 

Long  shall  the  traveller  strain  his  eye 

From  the  railroad  car,  as  it  plunges  by, 

And  the  vanishing  town  behind  him  search 

For  the  slender  spire  of  the  Whitefield  Church ; 


130    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

And  feel  for  one  moment  the  ghosts  of  trade, 
And  fashion,  and  folly,  and  pleasure  laid, 
By  the  thought  of  that  life  of  pure  intent, 
That  voice  of  warning  yet  eloquent, 
Of  one  on  the  errands  of  angels  sent. 
And  if  where  he  labored  the  flood  of  sin 
Like  a  tide  from  the  harbor-bar  sets  in, 
And  over  a  life  of  time  and  sense 
The  church-spires  lift  their  vain  defence, 
As  if  to  scatter  the  bolts  of  God 
With  the  points  of  Calvin's  thunder-rod,  — 
Still,  as  the  gem  of  its  civic  crown, 
Precious  beyond  the  world's  renown, 
His  memory  hallows  the  ancient  town ! 
1859. 


THE  TRUCE  OF  PISCATAQUA. 

In  the  winter  of  1675-76,  the  Eastern  Indians,  who  had  heen 
making  war  upon  the  New  Hampshire  settlements,  were  so  re- 
duced in  numbers  by  fighting  and  famine  that  they  agreed  to  a 
peace  with  Major  Waldron  at  Dover,  but  the  peace  was  broken 
in  the  fall  of  1676.  The  famous  chief,  Squando,  was  the  princi- 
pal negotiator  on  the  part  of  the  savages.  He  had  taken  up  the 
hatchet  to  revenge  the  brutal  treatment  of  his  child  by  drunken 
white  sailors,  which  caused  its  death. 

It  not  unfrequently  happened  during  the  Border  wars  that 
young  white  children  were  adopted  by  their  Indian  captors,  and 
so  kindly  treated  that  they  were  unwilling  to  leave  the  free,  wild 
life  of  the  woods ;  and  in  some  instances  they  utterly  refused  to 
go  back  with  their  parents  to  their  old  homes  and  civilization. 

RAZE  these  long  blocks  of  brick  and  stone, 
These  huge  mill-monsters  overgrown  ; 
Blot  out  the  humbler  piles  as  well, 
Where,  moved  like  living  shuttles,  dwell 


THE   TRUCE  OF  P1SCATAQUA          231 

The  weaving  genii  of  the  bell ; 

Tear  from  the  wild  Cocheco's  track 

The  dams  that  hold  its  torrents  back ; 

And  let  the  loud -rejoicing  fall 

Plunge,  roaring,  down  its  rocky  wall ; 

And  let  the  Indian's  paddle  play 

On  the  unbridged  Piscataqua  ! 

Wide  over  hill  and  valley  spread 

Once  more  the  forest,  dusk  and  dread, 

With  here  and  there  a  clearing  cut 

From  the  walled  shadows  round  it  shut ; 

Each  with  its  farm-house  builded  rude, 

By  English  yeoman  squared  and  hewed, 

And  the  grim,  flankered  block-house  bound 

With  bristling  palisades  around. 

So,  haply  shall  before  thine  eyes 

The  dusty  veil  of  centuries  rise, 

The  old,  strange  scenery  overlay 

The  tamer  pictures  of  to-day, 

While,  like  the  actors  in  a  play, 

Pass  in  their  ancient  guise  along 

The  figures  of  my  border  song : 

What  time  beside  Cocheco's  flood 

The  white  man  and  the  red  man  stood, 

With  words  of  peace  and  brotherhood ; 

When  passed  the  sacred  calumet 

From  lip  to  lip  with  fire-draught  wet, 

And,  puffed  in  scorn,  the  peace-pipe's  smoke 

Through  the  gray  beard  of  Waldron  broke, 

And  Squando's  voice,  in  suppliant  plea 

For  mercy,  struck  the  haughty  key 

Of  one  who  held,  in  any  fate, 

His  native  pride  inviolate  ! 


232     NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

"  Let  your  ears  be  opened  wide ! 
He  who  speaks  has  never  lied. 
Waldron  of  Piscataqua, 
Hear  what  Squaudo  has  to  say  ! 

"  Squando  shuts  his  eyes  and  sees, 
Far  off,  Saco's  hemlock-trees. 
In  his  wigwam,  still  as  stone, 
Sits  a  woman  all  alone, 

"  Wampum  beads  and  birchen  strands 
Dropping  from  her  careless  hands, 
Listening  ever  for  the  fleet 
Patter  of  a  dead  child's  feet ! 

"  When  the  moon  a  year  ago 
Told  the  flowers  the  time  to  blow, 
In  that  lonely  wigwam  smiled 
Menewee,  our  little  child. 

"  Ere  that  moon  grew  thin  and  old, 
He  was  lying  still  and  cold  ; 
Sent  before  us,  weak  and  small, 
When  the  Master  did  not  call! 


"  On  his  little  grave  I  lay  ; 
Three  times  went  and  came  the  day ; 
Thrice  above  me  blazed  the  noon, 
Thrice  upon  me  wept  the  moon. 

"  In  the  third  night-watch  I  heard, 
Far  and  low,  a  spirit-bird  ; 
Very  mournful,  very  wild, 
Sang  the  totem  of  my  child. 


THE   TRUCE   OF  PISCATAQUA  233 

u  '  Menewee,  poor  Menewee, 
Walks  a  path  he  cannot  see  : 
Let  the  white  man's  wigwam  light 
With  its  blaze  his  steps  aright. 

"  '  All-uncalled,  he  dares  not  show 
Empty  hands  to  Manito  : 
Better  gifts  he  cannot  bear 
Than  the  scalps  his  slayers  wear.' 

"  All  the  while  the  totem  sang, 
Lightning  blazed  and  thunder  rang ; 
And  a  black  cloud,  reaching  high, 
Pulled  the  white  moon  from  the  sky. 

"  I,  the  medicine-man,  whose  ear 
All  that  spirits  hear  can  hear,  — 
I,  whose  eyes  are  wide  to  see 
All  the  things  that  are  to  be,  — 

"  Well  I  knew  the  dreadful  signs 
In  the  whispers  of  the  pines, 
In  the  river  roaring  loud, 
In  the  mutter  of  the  cloud. 

"  At  the  breaking  of  the  day, 
From  the  grave  I  passed  away  ; 
Flowers  bloomed  round  me,  birds  sang  glad, 
But  my  heart  was  hot  and  mad. 

"  There  is  rust  on  Squando's  knife, 
From  the  warm,  red  springs  of  life ; 
On  the  funeral  hemlock-trees 
Many  a  scalp  the  totem  sees. 


234    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

"  Blood  for  blood  !     But  evermore 
Squando's  heart  is  sad  and  sore  ; 
And  his  poor  squaw  waits  at  home 
For  the  feet  that  never  come  ! 

"  Waldron  of  Cocheco,  hear  ! 
Squando  speaks,  who  laughs  at  fear ; 
Take  the  captives  he  has  ta'en  ; 
Let  the  land  have  peace  again !  " 

As  the  words  died  on  his  tongue, 
Wide  apart  his  warriors  swung  ; 
Parted,  at  the  sign  he  gave, 
Right  and  left,  like  Egypt's  wave. 

And,  like  Israel  passing  free 
Through  the  prophet-charmed  sea, 
Captive  mother,  wife,  and  child 
Through  the  dusky  terror  filed. 

One  alone,  a  little  maid, 
Middleway  her  steps  delayed, 
Glancing,  with  quick,  troubled  sight, 
Round  about  from  red  to  white. 

Then  his  hand  the  Indian  laid 
On  the  little  maiden's  head, 
Lightly  from  her  forehead  fair 
Smoothing  back  her  yellow  hair. 

"  Gift  or  favor  ask  I  none  ; 
What  I  have  is  all  my  own  : 
Never  yet  the  birds  have  sung, 

'  Squando  hath  a  beggar's  tongue.' 


THE   TRUCE   OF  PISCATAQUA          235 

"  Yet  for  her  who  waits  at  home, 
For  the  dead  who  cannot  come, 
Let  the  little  Gold-hair  be 
In  the  place  of  Menewee ! 

"  Mishanock,  my  little  star  ! 
Come  to  Saco's  pines  afar  ; 
Where  the  sad  one  waits  at  home, 
Wequashim,  my  moonlight,  come  !  " 

"  What !  "  quoth  Waldron,  "  leave  a  child 
Christian-born  to  heathens  wild  ? 
As  God  lives,  from  Satan's  hand 
I  will  pluck  her  as  a  brand !  " 

"  Hear  me,  white  man  !  "  Squando  cried ; 
"  Let  the  little  one  decide. 

Wequashim,  my  moonlight,  say, 

Wilt  thou  go  with  me,  or  stay  ?  " 

Slowly,  sadly,  half  afraid, 

Half  regretfully,  the  maid 

Owned  the  ties  of  blood  and  race,  — 

Turned  from  Squando's  pleading  face. 

Not  a  word  the  Indian  spoke, 
But  his  wampum  chain  he  broke, 
And  the  beaded  wonder  hung 
On  that  neck  so  fair  and  young. 

Silence-shod,  as  phantoms  seem 
In  the  marches  of  a  dream, 
Single-filed,  the  grim  array 
Through  the  pine-trees  wound  away. 


236    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

Doubting,  trembling,  sore  amazed, 
Through  her  tears  the  young  child  gazed. 

"  God  preserve  her  !  "  Waldron  said ; 

"Satan  hath  bewitched  the  maid  !  " 

Years  went  and  came.     At  close  of  day 
Singing  came  a  child  from  play, 
Tossing  from  her  loose-locked  head 
Gold  in  sunshine-,  brown  in  shade. 

Pride  was  in  the  mother's  look, 
But  her  head  she  gravely  shook, 
And  with  lips  that  fondly  smiled 
Feigned  to  chide  her  truant  child. 

Unabashed,  the  maid  began  : 
"  Up  and  down  the  brook  I  ran, 
Where,  beneath  the  bank  so  steep, 
Lie  the  spotted  trout  asleep. 

"  *  Chip ! '  went  squirrel  on  the  wall, 
After  me  I  heard  him  call, 
And  the  cat-bird  on  the  tree 
Tried  his  best  to  mimic  me. 

"  Where  the  hemlocks  grew  so  dark 
That  I  stopped  to  look  and  hark, 
On  a  log,  with  feather-hat, 
By  the  path,  an  Indian  sat. 

"  Then  I  cried,  and  ran  away ; 
But  he  called,  and  bade  me  stay  ; 
And  his  voice  was  good  and  mild 
As  my  mother's  to  her  child. 


THE   TRUCE  OF  PISCATAQUA          237 

"  And  lie  took  my  wampum  chain, 
Looked  and  looked  it  o'er  again ; 
Gave  me  berries,  and,  beside, 
On  my  neck  a  plaything  tied." 

Straight  the  mother  stooped  to  see 
What  the  Indian's  gift  might  be. 
On  the  braid  of  wampum  hung, 
Lo !  a  cross  of  silver  swung. 

"Well  she  knew  its  graven  sign, 
Squando's  bird  and  totem  pine ; 
And,  a  mirage  of  the  brain, 
Flowed  her  childhood  back  again. 

Flashed  the  roof  the  sunshine  through, 
Into  space  the  walls  outgrew  ; 
On  the  Indian's  wigwam-mat, 
Blossom-crowned,  again  she  sat. 

Cool  she  felt  the  west-wind  blow, 
In  her  ear  the  pines  sang  low, 
And,  like  links  from  out  a  chain, 
Dropped  the  years  of  care  and  pain. 

From  the  outward  toil  and  din, 
From  the  griefs  that  gnaw  within, 
To  the  freedom  of  the  woods 
Called  the  birds,  and  winds,  and  floods. 

"Well,  O  painful  minister ! 
Watch  thy  flock,  but  blame  not  her, 
If  her  ear  grew  sharp  to  hear 
All  their  voices  whispering  near. 


238    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

Blarne  her  not,  as  to  her  soul 
All  the  desert's  glamour  stole, 
That  a  tear  for  childhood's  loss 
Dropped  upon  the  Indian's  cross. 

When,  that  night,  the  Book  was  read, 
And  she  bowed  her  widowed  head, 
And  a  prayer  for  each  loved  name 
Rose  like  incense  from  a  flame, 

With  a  hope  the  creeds  forbid 
In  her  pitying  bosom  hid, 
To  the  listening  ear  of  Heaven 
Lo  !  the  Indian's  name  was  given. 

1860. 


MY  PLAYMATE. 

THE  pines  were  dark  on  Ramoth  hill, 
Their  song  was  soft  and  low  ; 

The  blossoms  in  the  sweet  May  wind 
Were  falling  like  the  snow. 

The  blossoms  drifted  at  our  feet,  » 
The  orchard  birds  sang  clear ; 

The  sweetest  and  the  saddest  day 
It  seemed  of  all  the  year. 

For,  more  to  me  than  birds  or  flowers, 
My  playmate  left  her  home, 

And  took  with  her  the  laughing  spring, 
The  music  and  the  bloom. 


MY  PLAYMATE  239 

She  kissed  the  lips  of  kith  and  kin, 

She  laid  her  hand  in  mine : 
What  more  could  ask  the  bashful  boy 

Who  fed  her  father's  kine  ? 

She  left  us  in  the  bloom  of  May : 

The  constant  years  told  o'er 
Their  seasons  with  as  sweet  May  morns, 

But  she  came  back  no  more. 

I  walk,  with  noiseless  feet,  the  round 

Of  uneventful  years ; 
Still  o'er  and  o'er  I  sow  the  spring 

And  reap  the  autumn  ears. 

She  lives  where  all  the  golden  year 

Her  summer  roses  blow  ; 
The  dusky  children  of  the  sun 

Before  her  come  and  go. 

There  haply  with  her  jewelled  hands 
She  smooths  her  silken  gown,  — 

No  more  the  homespun  lap  wherein 
I  shook  the  walnuts  down. 

The  wild  grapes  wait  us  by  the  brook, 

The  brown  nuts  on  the  hill, 
And  still  the  May-day  flowers  make  sweet 

The  woods  of  Follymill. 

The  lilies  blossom  in  the  pond, 

The  bird  builds  in  the  tree, 
The  dark  pines  sing  on  Ramoth  hill 

The  slow  song  of  the  sea. 


240      NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

I  wonder  if  she  thinks  of  them, 
And  how  the  old  time  seems,  — 

If  ever  the  pines  of  Ramoth  wood 
Are  sounding  in  her  dreams. 

I  see  her  face,  I  hear  her  voice  ; 

Does  she  remember  mine  ? 
And  what  to  her  is  now  the  boy 

Who  fed  her  father's  kine  ? 

What  cares  she  that  the  orioles  build 

For  other  eyes  than  ours,  — 
That  other  hands  with  nuts  are  filled, 

And  other  laps  with  flowers  ? 

O  playmate  in  the  golden  time ! 

Our  mossy  seat  is  green, 
Its  fringing  violets  blossom  yet, 

The  old  trees  o'er  it  lean. 

The  winds  so  sweet  with  birch  and  fern 

A  sweeter  memory  blow  ; 
And  there  in  spring  the  veeries  sing 

The  song  of  long  ago. 

And  still  the  pines  of  Ramoth  wood 

Are  moaning  like  the  sea,  — 
The  moaning  of  the  sea  of  change 

Between  myself  and  thee ! 
1860. 


COBBLER  KEEZAR'S    VISION  241 


COBBLER  KEEZAR'S  VISION. 

This  ballad  was  written  on  the  occasion  of  a  Horticultural  Fes- 
tival. Cobbler  Keezar  was  a  noted  character  among  the  first  set- 
tlers in  the  valley  of  the  Merrimac. 

THE  beaver  cut  his  timber 

With  patient  teeth  that  day, 
The  minks  were  fish-wards,  and  the  crows 

Surveyors  of  highway,  — 

When  Keezar  sat  on  the  hillside 

Upon  his  cobbler's  form, 
With  a  pan  of  coals  on  either  hand 

To  keep  his  waxed-ends  warm. 

And  there,  in  the  golden  weather, 

He  stitched  and  hammered  and  sung  ; 

In  the  brook  he  moistened  his  leather, 
In  the  pewter  mug  his  tongue. 

Well  knew  the  tough  old  Teuton 

Who  brewed  the  stoutest  ale, 
And  he  paid  the  good  wife's  reckoning 

In  the  coin  of  song  and  tale. 

The  songs  they  still  are  singing 

Who  dress  the  hills  of  vine, 
The  tales  that  haunt  the  Brockeii 

And  whisper  down  the  Rhine. 

Woodsy  and  wild  and  lonesome, 

The  swift  stream  wound  away, 
Through  birches  and  scarlet  maples 

Flashing  in  foam  and  spray,  — 


242    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

Down  on  the  sharp-horned  ledges 

Plunging  in  steep  cascade, 
Tossing  its  white-maned  waters 

Against  the  hemlock's  shade. 

Woodsy  and  wild  and  lonesome, 

East  and  west  and  north  and  south ; 

Only  the  village  of  fishers 
Down  at  the  river's  mouth  ; 

Only  here  and  there  a  clearing, 
With  its  farm-house  rude  and  new, 

And  tree-stumps,  swart  as  Indians, 
Where  the  scanty  harvest  grew. 

No  shout  of  home-bound  reapers, 

No  vintage-song  he  heard, 
And  on  the  green  no  dancing  feet 

The  merry  violin  stirred. 

"  Why  should  folk  be  glum,"  said  Keezar, 

"  When  Nature  herself  is  glad, 

And  the  painted  woods  are  laughing 

At  the  faces  so  sour  and  sad? " 

Small  heed  had  the  careless  cobbler 
What  sorrow  of  heart  was  theirs 

Who  travailed  in  pain  with  the  births  of  God, 
And  planted  a  state  with  prayers,  — 

Hunting  of  witches  and  warlocks, 

Smiting  the  heathen  horde,  — 
One  hand  on  the  mason's  trowel, 

And  one  on  the  soldier's  sword  I 


COBBLER  KEEZAR'S    VISION  243 

But  give  him  his  ale  and  cider, 

Give  him  his  pipe  and  song, 
Little  he  cared  for  Church  or  State, 

Or  the  balance  of  right  and  wrong. 

"  'T  is  work,  work,  work,"  he  muttered,  — 

"  And  for  rest  a  snuffle  of  psalms  !  " 
He  smote  on  his  leathern  apron 
With  his  brown  and  waxen  palms. 

"  Oh  for  the  purple  harvests 

Of  the  days  when  I  was  young ! 
For  the  merry  grape-stained  maidens, 
And  the  pleasant  songs  they  sung ! 

"  Oh  for  the  breath  of  vineyards, 

Of  apples  and  nuts  and  wine  ! 
For  an  oar  to  row  and  a  breeze  to  blow 
Down  the  grand  old  river  Rhine  !  " 

A  tear  in  his  blue  eye  glistened, 

And  dropped  on  his  beard  so  gray. 
"  Old,  old  am  I,"  said  Keezar, 

"  And  the  Rhine  flows  far  away !  " 

But  a  cunning  man  was  the  cobbler  ; 

He  could  call  the  birds  from  the  trees, 
Charm  the  black  snake  out  of  the  ledges, 

And  bring  back  the  swarming  bees. 

All  the  virtues  of  herbs  and  metals, 
All  the  lore  of  the  woods,  he  knew, 

And  the  arts  of  the  Old  World  mingle 
With  the  marvels  of  the  New. 


244    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

Well  he  kiiew  the  tricks  of  magic, 

And  the  lapstone  on  his  knee 
Had  the  gift  of  the  Mormon's  goggles 

Or  the  stone  of  Doctor  Dee.u 

For  the  mighty  master  Agrippa 
Wrought  it  with  spell  and  rhyme 

From  a  fragment  of  mystic  moonstone 
In  the  tower  of  Nettesheim. 

To  a  cobbler  Minnesinger 

The  marvellous  stone  gave  he,  — 

And  he  gave  it,  in  turn,  to  Keezar, 
Who  brought  it  over  the  sea. 

He  held  up  that  mystic  lapstone, 

He  held  it  up  like  a  lens, 
And  he  counted  the  long  years  coming 

By  twenties  and  by  tens. 

"  One  hundred  years,"  quoth  Keezar, 

"  And  fifty  have  I  told  : 
Now  open  the  new  before  me, 
And  shut  me  out  the  old !  " 


Like  a  cloud  of  mist,  the  blackness 

Rolled  from  the  magic  stone, 
And  a  marvellous  picture  mingled 

The  unknown  and  the  known. 

Still  ran  the  stream  to  the  river, 

And  river  and  ocean  joined  ; 
And  there  were  the  bluffs  and  the  blue  sea-line, 

And  cold  north  hills  behind. 


COBBLER  KEEZAR'S    VISION  245 

But  the  mighty  forest  was  broken 

By  many  a  steepled  town, 
By  many  a  white-walled  farm-house, 

And  many  a  garner  brown. 

Turning  a  score  of  mill-wheels, 

The  stream  no  more  ran  free ; 
White  sails  on  the  winding  river, 

White  sails  on  the  far-off  sea. 

Below  in  the  noisy  village 

The  flags  were  floating  gay, 
And  shone  on  a  thousand  faces 

The  light  of  a  holiday. 

Swiftly  the  rival  ploughmen 

Turned  the  brown  earth  from  their  shares  ; 
Here  were  the  farmer's  treasures, 

There  were  the  craftsman's  wares. 

Golden  the  goodwife's  butter, 

Ruby  her  currant-wine ; 
Grand  were  the  strutting  turkeys, 

Fat  were  the  beeves  and  swine. 

Yellow  and  red  were  the  apples, 
And  the  ripe  pears  russet-brown, 

And  the  peaches  had  stolen  blushes 
From  the  girls  who  shook  them  down. 

And  with  blooms  of  hill  and  wildwood, 

That  shame  the  toil  of  art, 
Mingled  the  gorgeous  blossoms 

Of  the  garden's  tropic  heart. 


246    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

"  What  is  it  I  see  ?  "  said  Keezar : 

"  Am  I  here,  or  am  I  there  ? 
Is  it  a  fete  at  Bingen  ? 

Do  I  look  on  Frankfort  fair  ? 

"  But  where  are  the  clowns  and  puppets, 

And  imps  with  horns  and  tail  ? 

And  where  are  the  Rhenish  flagons  ? 

And  where  is  the  foaming  ale  ? 

"  Strange  things,  I  know,  will  happen,  — 

Strange  things  the  Lord  permits ; 
But  that  droughty  folk  should  be  jolly 
Puzzles  my  poor  old  wits. 

"  Here  are  smiling  manly  faces, 

And  the  maiden's  step  is  gay ; 
Nor  sad  by  thinking,  nor  mad  by  drinking, 
Nor  mopes,  nor  fools,  are  they. 

"  Here 's  pleasure  without  regretting, 

And  good  without  abuse, 
The  holiday  and  the  bridal 
Of  beauty  and  of  use. 

"  Here  's  a  priest  and  there  is  a  Quaker, 

Do  the  cat  and  dog  agree  ? 
Have  they  burned  the  stocks  for  ovenwood  ? 
Have  they  cut  down  the  gallows-tree  ? 

"  Would  the  old  folk  know  their  children  ? 

Would  they  own  the  graceless  town, 
With  never  a  ranter  to  worry 
And  never  a  witch  to  drown  ?  " 


COBBLER   KEEZAR'S    VISION  247 

Loud  laughed  the  cobbler  Keezar, 
Laughed  like  a  school-boy  gay ; 

Tossing  his  arms  above  him, 
The  lapstone  rolled  away. 

It  rolled  down  the  rugged  hillside, 

It  spun  like  a  wheel  bewitched, 
It  plunged  through  the  leaning  willows, 

And  into  the  river  pitched. 

There,  in  the  deep,  dark  water, 

The  magic  stone  lies  still, 
Under  the  leaning  willows 

In  the  shadow  of  the  hill. 

But  oft  the  idle  fisher 

Sits  on  the  shadowy  bank, 
And  his  dreams  make  marvellous  pictures 

Where  the  wizard's  lapstone  sank. 

And  still,  in  the  summer  twilights, 

When  the  river  seems  to  run 
Out  from  the  inner  glory, 

Warm  with  the  melted  sun, 

The  weary  mill-girl  lingers 

Beside  the  charmed  stream, 
And  the  sky  and  the  golden  water 

Shape  and  color  her  dream. 

Fair  wave  the  sunset  gardens, 

The  rosy  signals  fly  ; 
Her  homestead  beckons  from  the  cloud, 

And  love  goes  sailing  by. 
1861, 


248  NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 
AMY  WENTWORTH. 

TO    WILLIAM   BRADFORD. 

As  they  who  watch  by  sick-beds  find  relief 

Unwittingly  from  the  great  stress  of  grief 

And  anxious  care,  in  fantasies  outwrought 

From  the  hearth's  embers  flickering  low,  or  caught 

From  whispering  wind,  or  tread  of  passing  feet, 

Or  vagrant  memory  calling  up  some  sweet 

Snatch  of  old  song  or  romance,  whence  or  why 

They  scarcely  know  or  ask,  —  so,  thou  and  I, 

Nursed  in  the  faith  that  Truth  alone  is  strong 

In  the  endurance  which  out  wearies  Wrong, 

With  meek  persistence  baffling  brutal  force, 

And  trusting  God  against  the  universe,  — 

We,  doomed  to  watch  a  strife  we  may  not  share 

With  other  weapons  than  the  patriot's  prayer, 

Yet  owning,  with  full  hearts  and  moistened  eyes, 

The  awful  beauty  of  self-sacrifice, 

And  wrung  by  keenest  sympathy  for  all 

Who  give  their  loved  ones  for  the  living  wall 

'Twixt  law  and  treason,  —  in  this  evil  day 

May  haply  find,  through  automatic  play 

Of  pen  and  pencil,  solace  to  our  pain, 

And  hearten  others  with  the  strength  we  gain. 

I  know  it  has  been  said  our  times  require 

No  play  of  art,  nor  dalliance  with  the  lyre, 

No  weak  essay  with  Fancy's  chloroform 

To  calm  the  hot,  mad  pulses  of  the  storm, 

But  the  stern  war-blast  rather,  such  as  sets 

The  battle's  teeth  of  serried  bayonets, 


AMY  WENTWORTH  249 

And  pictures  grim  as  Vernet's.     Yet  with  these 
Some  softer  tints  may  blend,  and  milder  keys 
Relieve  the  storm-stunned  ear.     Let  us  keep  sweet, 
If  so  we  may,  our  hearts,  even  while  we  eat 
The  bitter  harvest  of  our  own  device 
And  half  a  century's  moral  cowardice. 
As  Niirnberg  sang  while  Wittenberg  defied, 
And  Krauach  painted  by  his  Luther's  side, 
And  through  the  war-march  of  the  Puritan 
The  silver  stream  of  MarvelTs  music  ran, 
So  let  the  household  melodies  be  sung, 
The  pleasant  pictures  on  the  wall  be  hung,  — 
So  let  us  hold  against  the  hosts  of  night 
And  slavery  all  our  vantage-ground  of  light. 
Let  Treason  boast  its  savagery,  and  shake 
From  its  flag-folds  its  symbol  rattlesnake, 
Nurse  its  fine  arts,  lay  human  skins  in  tan, 
And  carve  its  pipe-bowls  from  the  bones  of  man, 
And  make  the  tale  of  Fijian  banquets  dull 
By  drinking  whiskey  from  a  loyal  skull,  — 
But  let  us  guard,  till  this  sad  war  shall  cease, 
(God  grant  it  soon  !)  the  graceful  arts  of  peace : 
No  foes  are  conquered  who  the  victors  teach 
Their  vandal  manners  and  barbaric  speech. 

And  while,  with  hearts  of  thankfulness,  we  bear 
Of  the  great  common  burden  our  full  share, 
Let  none  upbraid  us  that  the  waves  entice 
Thy  sea-dipped  pencil,  or  some  quaint  device, 
Rhythmic  and  sweet,  beguiles  my  pen  away 
From  the  sharp  strifes  and  sorrows  of  to-day. 
Thus,  while  the  east-wind  keen  from  Labrador 
Sings  in  the  leafless  elms,  and  from  the  shore 


250    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

Of  the  great  sea  coines  the  monotonous  roar 

Of  the  long-breaking  surf,  and  all  the  sky 

Is  gray  with  cloud,  home-bound  and  dull,  I  try 

To  time  a  simple  legend  to  the  sounds 

Of   winds   in   the  woods,  and  waves  on  pebbled 

bounds,  — 

A  song  for  oars  to  chime  with,  such  as  might 
Be  sung  by  tired  sea-painters,  who  at  night 
Look  from  their  hemlock  camps,  by  quiet  cove 
Or  beach,  moon-lighted,  on  the  waves  they  love. 
(So  hast  thou  looked,  when  level  sunset  lay 
On  the  calm  bosom  of  some  Eastern  bay, 
And  all  the  spray-moist  rocks  and  waves  that  rolled 
Up  the  white  sand-slopes  flashed  with  ruddy  gold.) 
Something  it  has  —  a  flavor  of  the  sea, 
And  the  sea's  freedom  —  which  reminds  of  thee. 
Its  faded  picture,  dimly  smiling  down 
From  the  blurred  fresco  of  the  ancient  town, 
I  have  not  touched  with  warmer  tints  in  vain, 
If,  in  this  dark,  sad  year,  it  steals  one  thought  from 

pain. 


Her  fingers  shame  the  ivory  keys 
They  dance  so  light  along  ; 

The  bloom  upon  her  parted  lips 
Is  sweeter  than  the  song. 

O  perfumed  suitor,  spare  thy  smiles ! 

Her  thoughts  are  not  of  thee  ; 
She  better  loves  the  salted  wind, 

The  voices  of  the  sea. 


Amy  Wentworth 


AMY  WENTWORTH  251 

Her  heart  is  like  an  outbound  ship 

That  at  its  anchor  swings ; 
The  murmur  of  the  stranded  shell 

Is  in  the  song  she  sings. 

She  sings,  and,  smiling,  hears  her  praise, 

But  dreams  the  while  of  one 
Who  watches  from  his  sea-blown  deck 

The  icebergs  in  the  sun. 

She  questions  all  the  winds  that  blow, 

And  every  fog-wreath  dim, 
And  bids  the  sea-birds  flying  north 

Bear  messages  to  him. 

She  speeds  them  with  the  thanks  of  men 

He  perilled  life  to  save, 
And  grateful  prayers  like  holy  oil 

To  smooth  for  him  the  wave. 

Brown  Viking  of  the  fishing-smack  ! 

Fair  toast  of  all  the  town !  — 
The  skipper's  jerkin  ill  beseems 

The  lady's  silken  gown  ! 

But  ne'er  shall  Amy  Wentworth  wear 

For  him  the  blush  of  shame 
Who  dares  to  set  his  manly  gifts 

Against  her  ancient  name. 

The  stream  is  brightest  at  its  spring, 

And  blood  is  not  like  wine ; 
Nor  honored  less  than  he  who  heirs 

Is  he  who  founds  a  line. 


252     NA  RRA  TIVE  AND  LEGEND  A  R  Y  POEMS 

Full  lightly  shall  the  prize  be  won, 

If  love  be  Fortune's  spur ; 
And  never  maiden  stoops  to  him 

Who  lifts  himself  to  her. 

Her  home  is  brave  in  Jaffrey  Street, 

With  stately  stairways  worn 
By  feet  of  old  Colonial  knights 

And  ladies  gentle-born. 

Still  green  about  its  ample  porch 

The  English  ivy  twines, 
Trained  back  to  show  in  English  oak 

The  herald's  carven  signs. 

And  on  her,  from  the  wainscot  old, 

Ancestral  faces  frown,  — 
And  this  has  worn  the  soldier's  sword, 

And  that  the  judge's  gown. 

But,  strong  of  will  and  proud  as  they, 

She  walks  the  gallery  floor 
As  if  she  trod  her  sailor's  deck 

By  stormy  Labrador ! 

The  sweetbrier  blooms  on  Kittery-side, 
And  green  are  Elliot's  bowers  ; 

Her  garden  is  the  pebbled  beach, 
The  mosses  are  her  flowers. 

She  looks  across  the  harbor-bar 

To  see  the  white  gulls  fly  ; 
His  greeting  from  the  Northern  sea 

Is  in  their  clanging  cry. 


THE  COUNTESS  253 

She  hums  a  song,  and  dreams  that  he, 

As  in  its  romance  old, 
Shall  homeward  ride  with  silken  sails 

And  masts  of  beaten  gold ! 

Oh,  rank  is  good,  and  gold  is  fair, 

And  high  and  low  mate  ill ; 
But  love  has  never  known  a  law 

Beyond  its  own  sweet  will ! 
1862. 


THE  COUNTESS. 

TO  fc.   W. 

I  inscribed  this  poem  to  Dr.  Elias  Weld  of  Haverhill,  Massa- 
chusetts, to  whose  kindness  I  was  much  indebted  in  my  boyhood. 
He  was  the  one  cultivated  man  in  the  neighborhood.  His  small 
but  well-chosen  library  was  placed  at  my  disposal.  He  is  the 
"wise  old  doctor"  of  Snow-Bound. 

Count  FrangoisdeVipart  with  his  cousin  Joseph  Rochemont  de 
Poyen  came  to  the  United  States  in  the  early  part  of  the  pre- 
sent century.  They  took  up  their  residence  at  Rocks  Village 
on  the  Merrimac,  where  they  both  married.  The  wife  of  Count 
Vipart  was  Mary  Ingalls,  who  as  my  father  remembered  her  was 
a  very  lovely  young  girl.  Her  wedding  dress,  as  described  by  a 
lady  still  living,  was  "  pink  satin  with  an  overdress  of  white  lace, 
and  white  satin  slippers."  She  died  in  less  than  a  year  after  her 
marriage.  Her  husband  returned  to  his  native  country.  He  lies 
buried  in  the  family  tomb  of  the  Viparts  at  Bordeaux. 

I  KNOW  not,  Time  and  Space  so  intervene, 
Whether,  still  waiting  with  a  trust  serene, 
Thou  bearest  up  thy  fourscore  years  and  ten, 
Or,  called  at  last,  art  now  Heaven's  citizen ; 
But,  here  or  there,  a  pleasant  thought  of  thee, 
Like  an  old  friend,  all  day  has  been  with  me. 


254     NA  RRA  TI VE  A  ND  LEG  EN  DA  R  Y  POEMS 

The  shy,  still  boy,  for  whom  thy  kindly  hand 
Smoothed  his  hard  pathway  to  the  wonder-land 
Of  thought  and  fancy,  in  gray  manhood  yet 
Keeps  green  the  memory  of  his  early  debt. 
To-day,   when   truth    and   falsehood    speak   their 

words 

Through  hot-lipped  cannon  and  the  teeth  of  swords, 
Listening  with  quickened  heart  and  ear  intent 
To  each  sharp  clause  of  that  stern  argument, 
I  still  can  hear  at  times  a  softer  note 
Of  the  old  pastoral  music  round  me  float, 
While  through  the  hot  gleam  of  our  civil  strife 
Looms  the  green  mirage  of  a  simpler  life. 
As,  at  his  alien  post,  the  sentinel 
Drops  the  old  bucket  in  the  homestead  well, 
And  hears  old  voices  in  the  winds  that  toss 
Above  his  head  the  live-oak's  beard  of  moss, 
So,  in  our  trial-time,  and  under  skies 
Shadowed  by  swords  like  Islam's  paradise, 
I  wait  and  watch,  and  let  my  fancy  stray 
To  milder  scenes  and  youth's  Arcadian  day ; 
And  howsoe'er  the  pencil  dipped  in  dreams 
Shades  the  brown  woods  or  tints  the  sunset  streams, 
The  country  doctor  in  the  foreground  seems, 
Whose  ancient  sulky  down  the  village  lanes 
Dragged,  like  a  war-car,  captive  ills  and  pains. 
I  could  not  paint  the  scenery  of  my  song, 
Mindless  of  one  who  looked  thereon  so  long ; 
Who,  night  and  day,  on  duty's  lonely  round, 
Made  friends  o'  the  woods  and  rocks,  and  knew  the 

sound 

Of  each  small  brook,  and  what  the  hillside  trees 
Said  to  the  winds  that  touched  their  leafy  keys ; 


THE   COUNTESS  255 

TTho  saw  so  keenly  and  so  well  could  paint 
The  village-folk,  with  all  their  humors  quaint,  — 
The  parson  ambling  on  his  wall-eyed  roan, 
Grave  and  erect,  with  white  hair  backward  blown ; 
The  tough  old  boatman,  half  amphibious  grown ; 
The  muttering  witch-wife  of  the  gossip's  tale, 
And  the  loud  straggler  levying  his  blackmail,  — 
Old  customs,  habits,  superstitions,  fears, 
All  that  lies  buried  under  fifty  years. 
To  thee,  as  is  most  fit,  I  bring  my  lay, 
And,  grateful,  own  the  debt  I  cannot  pay. 


Over  the  wooded  northern  ridge, 

Between  its  houses  brown, 
To  the  dark  tunnel  of  the  bridge 

The  street  comes  straggling  down. 

• 
You  catch  a  glimpse,  through  birch  and  pine, 

Of  gable,  roof,  and  porch, 
The  tavern  with  its  swinging  sign, 

The  sharp  horn  of  the  church. 

The  river's  steel-blue  crescent  curves 

To  meet,  in  ebb  and  flow, 
The  single  broken  wharf  that  serves 

For  sloop  and  gundelow. 

With  salt  sea-scents  along  its  shores 

The  heavy  hay-boats  crawl, 
The  long  antennae  of  their  oars 

In  lazy  rise  and  fall. 


256     NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

Along  the  gray  abutment's  wall 

The  idle  shad-net  dries ; 
The  toll-man  in  his  cobbler's  stall 

Sits  smoking  with  closed  eyes. 

You  hear  the  pier's  low  undertone 
Of  waves  that  chafe  and  gnaw  ; 

You  start,  —  a  skipper's  horn  is  blown 
To  raise  the  creaking  draw. 

At  times  a  blacksmith's  anvil  sounds 

With  slow  and  sluggard  beat, 
Or  stage-coach  on  its  dusty  rounds 

Wakes  up  the  staring  street. 

A  place  for  idle  eyes  and  ears, 

A  cobwebbed  nook  of  dreams  ; 
Left  by  the  stream  whose  waves  are  years 
•  The  stranded  village  seems. 

And  there,  like  other  moss  and  rust, 

The  native  dweller  clings, 
And  keeps,  in  uninquiring  trust, 

The  old,  dull  round  of  things. 

The  fisher  drops  his  patient  lines, 

The  farmer  sows  his  grain, 
Content  to  hear  the  murmuring  pines 

Instead  of  railroad-train. 

Go  where,  along  the  tangled  steep 

That  slopes  against  the  west, 
The  hamlet's  buried  idlers  sleep 

In  still  profounder  rest. 


THE   COUNTESS  257 

Throw  back  the  locust's  flowery  plume, 

The  birch's  pale-green  scarf, 
And  break  the  web  of  brier  and  bloom 

From  name  and  epitaph. 

A  simple  muster-roll  of  death, 

Of  pomp  and  romance  shorn, 
The  dry,  old  names  that  common  breath 

Has  cheapened  and  outworn. 

Yet  pause  by  one  low  mound,  and  part 

The  wild  vines  o'er  it  laced, 
And  read  the  words  by  rustic  art 

Upon  its  headstone  traced. 

Haply  yon  white-haired  villager 

Of  fourscore  years  can  say 
What  means  the  noble  name  of  her 

Who  sleeps  with  common  clay. 

An  exile  from  the  Gascon  land 

Found  refuge  here  and  rest, 
And  loved,  of  all  the  village  band, 

Its  fairest  and  its  best. 

He  knelt  with  her  on  Sabbath  morns, 
He  worshipped  through  her  eyes, 

And  on  the  pride  that  doubts  and  scorns 
Stole  in  her  faith's  surprise. 

Her  simple  daily  life  he  saw 

By  homeliest  duties  tried, 
In  all  things  by  an  untaught  law 

Of  fitness  justified. 


258     NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

For  her  his  rank  aside  he  laid  ; 

He  took  the  hue  and  tone 
Of  lowly  life  and  toil,  and  made 

Her  simple  ways  his  own. 

Yet  still,  in  gay  and  careless  ease, 

To  harvest-field  or  dance 
He  brought  the  gentle  courtesies, 

The  nameless  grace  of  France. 

And  she  who  taught  him  love  not  less 

From  him  she  loved  in  turn 
Caught  in  her  sweet  unconsciousness 

What  love  is  quick  to  learn. 

Each  grew  to  each  in  pleased  accord, 

Nor  knew  the  gazing  town 
If  she  looked  upward  to  her  lord 

Or  he  to  her  looked  down. 

How  sweet,  when  summer's  day  was  o'er, 

His  violin's  mirth  and  wail, 
The  walk  on  pleasant  Newbury's  shore, 

The  river's  moonlit  sail ! 

Ah  !  life  is  brief,  though  love  be  long ; 

The  altar  and  the  bier, 
The  burial  hymn  and  bridal  song, 

Were  both  in  one  short  year ! 

Her  rest  is  quiet  on  the  hill, 

Beneath  the  locust's  bloom : 
Far  off  her  lover  sleeps  as  still 

Within  his  scutcheoned  tomb. 


THE   COUNTESS  259 

The  Gascon  lord,  the  village  maid, 
In  death  still  clasp  their  hands ; 

The  love  that  levels  rank  and  grade 
Unites  their  severed  lands. 

What  matter  whose  the  hillside  grave, 

Or  whose  the  blazoned  stone? 
Forever  to  her  western  wave 

Shall  whisper  blue  Garonne  ! 

O  Love  !  —  so  hallowing  every  soil 
That  gives  thy  sweet  flower  room, 

Wherever,  nursed  by  ease  or  toil, 
The  human  heart  takes  bloom  !  — 

Plant  of  lost  Eden,  from  the  sod 

Of  sinful  earth  unriven, 
White  blossom  of  the  trees  of  God 

Dropped  down  to  us  from  heaven  !  — 

This  tangled  waste  of  mound  and  stone 

Is  holy  for  thy  sake  ; 
A  sweetness  which  is  all  thy  own 

Breathes  out  from  fern  and  brake. 

And  while  ancestral  pride  shall  twine 
The  Gascon's  tomb  with  flowers, 

Fall  sweetly  here,  O  song  of  mine, 
With  summer's  bloom  and  showers ! 

And  let  the  lines  that  severed  seem 

Unite  again  in  thee, 
As  western  wave  and  Gallic  stream 

Are  mingled  in  one  sea ! 

1863. 


260     NARRA Tl VE  A ND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 


AMONG  THE  HILLS. 

This  poem,  when  originally  published,  was  dedicated  to  Annie 
Fields,  wife  of  the  distinguished  publisher,  James  T.  Fields,  of 
Boston,  in  grateful  acknowledgment  of  the  strength  and  inspira- 
tion I  have  found  in  her  friendship  and  sympathy. 

The  poem  in  its  first  form  was  entitled  The  Wife :  an  Idyl  of 
Bearcamp  Water,  and  appeared  in  The  Atlantic  Monthly  for  Jan- 
uary, 1868.  When  I  published  the  volume  Among  the  Hills,  in 
December  of  the  same  year,  I  expanded  the  Prelude  and  filled 
out  also  the  outlines  of  the  story. 

PRELUDE. 

ALONG  the  roadside,  like  the  flowers  of  gold 
That  tawny  Incas  for  their  gardens  wrought, 
Heavy  with  sunshine  droops  the  golden-rod, 
And  the  red  pennons  of  the  cardinal-flowers 
Hang  motionless  upon  their  upright  staves. 
The  sky  is  hot  and  hazy,  and  the  wind, 
Wing-weary  with  its  long  flight  from  the  south, 
Unfelt;  yet,  closely  scanned,  yon  maple  leaf 
With  faintest  motion,  as  one  stirs  in  dreams, 
Confesses  it.     The  locust  by  the  wall 
Stabs  the  noon-silence  with  his  sharp  alarm. 
A  single  hay-cart  down  the  dusty  road 
Creaks  slowly,  with  its  driver  fast  asleep 
On  the  load's  top.     Against  the  neighboring  hill, 
Huddled  along  the  stone  wall's  shady  side, 
The  sheep  show  white,  as  if  a  snowdrift  still 
Defied  the  dog-star.     Through  the  open  door 
A  drowsy  smell  of  flowers — gray  heliotrope, 
And  white  sweet  clover,  and  shy  mignonette  — 
Comes  faintly  in,  and  silent  chorus  lends 
To  the  pervading  symphony  of  peace. 


AMONG   THE  HILLS  261 

No  time  is  this  for  hands  long  over- worn 

To  task  their  strength  :  and  (unto  Him  be  praise 

Who  giveth  quietness  !)  the  stress  and  strain 

Of  years  that  did  the  work  of  centuries 

Have  ceased,  and  we  can  draw  our  breath  once 

more 

Freely  and  full.     So,  as  yon  harvesters 
Make  glad  their  nooning  underneath  the  elms 
With  tale  and  riddle  and  old  snatch  of  song, 
I  lay  aside  grave  themes,  and  idly  turn 
The  leaves   of    memory's   sketch-book,   dreaming 

o'er 

Old  summer  pictures  of  the  quiet  hills, 
And  human  life,  as  quiet,  at  their  feet. 

And  yet  not  idly  all.     A  farmer's  son, 

Proud  of  field-lore  and  harvest  craft,  and  feeling 

All  their  fine  possibilities,  how  rich 

And  restful  even  poverty  and  toil 

Become  when  beauty,  harmony,  and  love 

Sit  at  their  humble  hearth  as  angels  sat 

At  evening  in  the  patriarch's  tent,  when  man 

Makes  labor  noble,  and  his  farmer's  frocl$ 

The  symbol  of  a  Christian  chivalry 

Tender  and  just  and  generous  to  her 

Who  clothes  with  grace  all  duty ;  still,  I  know 

Too  well  the  picture  has  another  side,  — 

How  wearily  the  grind  of  toil  goes  on 

Where  love  is  wanting,  how  the  eye  and  ear 

And  heart  are  starved  amidst  the  plenitude 

Of  nature,  and  how  hard  and  colorless 

Is  life  without  an  atmosphere.     I  look 

Across  the  lapse  of  half  a  century, 


262     NA  RRA  TI VE  A  ND  LEGEND  A  R  Y  POEMS 

And  call  to  mind  old  homesteads,  where  no  flower 
Told  that  the  spring  had  come,  but  evil  weeds, 
Nightshade  and  rough-leaved  burdock  in  the  place 
Of  the  sweet  doorway  greeting  of  the  rose 
And  honeysuckle,  where  the  house  walls  seemed 
Blistering  in  sun,  without  a  tree  or  vine 
To  cast  the  tremulous  shadow  of  its  leaves 
Across  the  curtainless  windows,  from  whose  panes 
Fluttered  the  signal  rags  of  shiftlessness. 
Within,  the  cluttered  kitchen-floor,  unwashed 
(Broom-clean  I  think  they  called  it) ;   the   best 

room 

Stifling  with  cellar  damp,  shut  from  the  air 
In  hot  midsummer,  bookless,  pictureless 
Save  the  inevitable  sampler  hung 
Over  the  fireplace,  or  a  mourning  piece, 
A  green-haired  woman,  peony-cheeked,  beneath 
Impossible  willows  ;  the  wide-throated  hearth 
Bristling  with  faded  pine-boughs  half  concealing 
The  piled-up  rubbish  at  the  chimney's  back  ; 
And,  in  sad  keeping  with  all  things  about  them, 
Shrill,  querulous  women,  sour  and  sullen  men, 
Untidy,  loveless,  old  before  their  time, 
With  scarce  a  human  interest  save  their  own 
Monotonous  round  of  small  economies, 
Or  the  poor  scandal  of  the  neighborhood ; 
Blind  to  the  beauty  everywhere  revealed, 
Treading  the  May-flowers  with  regardless  feet ; 
For  them  the  song-sparrow  and  the  bobolink 
Sang  not,  nor  winds  made  music  in  the  leaves ; 
For  them  in  vain  October's  holocaust 
Burned,  gold  and  crimson,  over  all  the  hills, 
The  sacramental  mystery  of  the  woods. 


AMONG   THE  HILLS  263 

Church-goers,  fearful  of  the  unseen  Powers, 
But  grumbling  over  pulpit-tax  and  pew-rent, 
Saving,  as  shrewd  economists,  their  souls 
And  winter  pork  with  the  least  possible  outlay 
Of  salt  and  sanctity  ;  in  daily  life 
Showing  as  little  actual  comprehension 
Of  Christian  charity  and  love  and  duty, 
As  if  the  Sermon  on  the  Mount  had  been 
Outdated  like  a  last  year's  almanac  : 
Rich  in  broad  woodlands  and  in  half-tilled  fields, 
And  yet  so  pinched  and  bare  and  comfortless, 
The  veriest  straggler  limping  on  his  rounds, 
The  sun  and  air  his  sole  inheritance, 
Laughed  at  a  poverty  that  paid  its  taxes, 
And  hugged  his  rags  in  self-complacency ! 

Not  such  should  be  the  homesteads  of  a  land 
Where  whoso  wisely  wills  and  acts  may  dwell 
As  king  and  lawgiver,  in  broad-acred  state, 
With  beauty,  art,  taste,  culture,  books,  to  make 
His  hour  of  leisure  richer  than  a  life 
Of  fourscore  to  the  barons  of  old  time, 
Our  yeoman  should  be  equal  to  his  home 
Set  in  the  fair,  green  valleys,  purple  walled, 
A  man  to  match  his  mountains,  not  to  creep 
Dwarfed  and  abased  below  them.     I  would  fain 
In  this  light  way  (of  which  I  needs  must  own 
With  the  knife-grinder  of  whom  Canning  sings, 
"  Story,  God  bless  you  !  I  have  none  to  tell  you !  ") 
Invite  the  eye  to  see  and  heart  to  feel 
The  beauty  and  the  joy  within  their  reach,  — 
Home,  and  home  loves,  and  the  beatitudes 
Of  nature  free  to  all.     Haply  in  years 


264     NARRA  TIVE  AND  LEGEND AR Y  POEMS 

That  wait  to  take  the  places  of  our  own, 
Heard  where  some  breezy  balcony  looks  down 
On  happy  homes,  or  where  the  lake  in  the  moon 
Sleeps  dreaming  of  the  mountains,  fair  as  Ruth, 
In  the  old  Hebrew  pastoral,  at  the  feet 
Of  Boaz,  even  this  simple  lay  of  mine 
May  seem  the  burden  of  a  prophecy, 
Finding  its  late  fulfilment  in  a  change 
Slow  as  the  oak's  growth,  lifting  manhood  up 
Through  broader  culture,  finer  manners,  love, 
And  reverence,  to  the  level  of  the  hills. 

O  Golden  Age,  whose  light  is  of  the  dawn, 

And  not  of  sunset,  forward,  not  behind, 

Flood  the  new  heavens  and  earth,  and  with  thee 

bring 

All  the  old  virtues,  whatsoever  things 
Are  pure  and  honest  and  of  good  repute, 
But  add  thereto  whatever  bard  has  sung 
Or  seer  has  told  of  when  in  trance  and  dream 
They  saw  the  Happy  Isles  of  prophecy ! 
Let  Justice  hold  her  scale,  and  Truth  divide 
Between  the  right  and  wrong ;  but  give  the  heart 
The  freedom  of  its  fair  inheritance  ; 
Let  the  poor  prisoner,  cramped  and  starved  so 

long, 

At  Nature's  table  feast  his  ear  and  eye 
With  joy  and  wonder  ;  let  all  harmonies 
Of  sound,  form,  color,  motion,  wait  upon 
The  princely  guest,  whether  in  soft  attire 
Of  leisure  clad,  or  the  coarse  frock  of  toil, 
And,  lending  life  to  the  dead  form  of  faith, 
Give  human  nature  reverence  for  the  sake 


AMONG   THE  HILLS  265 

Of  One  who  bore  it,  making  it  divine 

With  the  ineffable  tenderness  of  God  ; 

Let  common  need,  the  brotherhood  of  prayer, 

The  heirship  of  an  unknown  destiny, 

The  unsolved  mystery  round  about  us,  make 

A  man  more  precious  than  the  gold  of  Ophir. 

Sacred,  inviolate,  unto  whom  all  things 

Should  minister,  as  outward  types  and  signs 

Of  the  eternal  beauty  which  fulfils 

The  one  great  purpose  of  creation,  Love, 

The  sole  necessity  of  Earth  and  Heaven ! 


For  weeks  the  clouds  had  raked  the  hills 
And  vexed  the  vales  with  raining, 

And  all  the  woods  were  sad  with  mist, 
And  all  the  brooks  complaining. 

At  last,  a  sudden  night-storm  tore 

The  mountain  veils  asunder, 
And  swept  the  valleys  clean  before 

The  besom  of  the  thunder. 

Through  Sandwich  notch  the  west-wind  sang 

Good  morrow  to  the  cotter  ; 
And  once  again  Chocorua's  horn 

Of  shadow  pierced  the  water. 

Above  his  broad  lake  Ossipee, 
Once  more  the  sunshine  wearing, 

Stooped,  tracing  on  that  silver  shield 
His  grim  armorial  bearing. 


266     NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

Clear  drawn  against  the  hard  blue  sky, 
The  peaks  had  winter's  keenness  ; 

And,  close  on  autumn's  frost,  the  vales 
Had  more  than  June's  fresh  greenness. 

Again  the  sodden  forest  floors 

With  golden  lights  were  checkered, 

Once  more  rejoicing  leaves  in  wind 
And  sunshine  danced  and  flickered. 

It  was  as  if  the  summer's  late 

Atoning  for  its  sadness 
Had  borrowed  every  season's  charm 

To  end  its  days  in  gladness. 

I  call  to  mind  those  banded  vales 

Of  shadow  and  of  shining, 
Through  which,  my  hostess  at  my  side, 

I  drove  in  day's  declining. 

We  held  our  sideling  way  above 
The  river's  whitening  shallows, 

By  homesteads  old,  with  wide-flung  barns 
Swept  through  and  through  by  swallows  ; 

By  maple  orchards,  belts  of  pine 

And  larches  climbing  darkly 
The  mountain  slopes,  and,  over  all, 

The  great  peaks  rising  starkly. 

You  should  have  seen  that  long  hill-range 
With  gaps  of  brightness  riven,  — 

How  through  each  pass  and  hollow  streamed 
The  purpling  lights  of  heaven,  — 


Chocorua's  horn 
Of  shadow  pierced  the  water 


AMONG  THE  HILLS  267 

Rivers  of  gold-mist  flowing  down 

From  far  celestial  fountains,  — 
The  great  sun  flaming  through  the  rifts 

Beyond  the  wall  of  mountains  ! 

We  paused  at  last  where  home-bound  cows 
Brought  down  the  pasture's  treasure, 

And  in  the  barn  the  rhythmic  flails 
Beat  out  a  harvest  measure. 

We  heard  the  night-hawk's  sullen  plunge, 

The  crow  his  tree-mates  calling  : 
The  shadows  lengthening  down  the  slopes 

About  our  feet  were  falling. 

And  through  them  smote  the  level  sun 

In  broken  lines  of  splendor, 
Touched  the  gray  rocks  and  made  the  green 

Of  the  shorn  grass  more  tender. 

The  maples  bending  o'er  the  gate, 

Their  arch  of  leaves  just  tinted 
With  yellow  warmth,  the  golden  glow 

Of  coming  autumn  hinted. 

Keen  white  between  the  farm-house  showed, 

And  smiled  on  porch  and  trellis, 
The  fair  democracy  of  flowers 

That  equals  cot  and  palace. 

And  weaving  garlands  for  her  dog, 

'Twixt  ehidings  and  caresses, 
A  human  flower  of  childhood  shook 

The  sunshine  from  her  tresses. 


268      NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

On  either  hand  we  saw  the  signs 

Of  fancy  and  of  shrewdness, 
Where  taste  had  wound  its  arms  of  vines 

Round  thrift's  uncomely  rudeness. 

The  sun-brown  farmer  in  his  frock 
Shook  hands,  and  called  to  Mary : 

Bare-armed,  as  Juno  might,  she  came, 
White-aproned  from  her  dairy. 

Her  air,  her  smile,  her  motions,  told 

Of  womanly  completeness  ; 
A  music  as  of  household  songs 

Was  in  her  voice  of  sweetness. 

Not  fair  alone  in  curve  and  line, 
But  something  more  and  better, 

The  secret  charm  eluding  art, 
Its  spirit,  not  its  letter ;  — 

An  inborn  grace  that  nothing  lacked 

Of  culture  or  appliance,  — 
The  warmth  of  genial  courtesy, 

The  calm  of  self-reliance. 

Before  her  queenly  womanhood 

How  dared  our  hostess  utter 
The  paltry  errand  of  her  need 

To  buy  her  fresh-churned  butter? 

She  led  the  way  with  housewife  pride, 

Her  goodly  store  disclosing, 
Full  tenderly  the  golden  balls 

With  practised  hands  disposing. 


AMONG   THE  HILLS  269 

Then,  while  along  the  western  hills 

We  watched  the  changeful  glory 
Of  sunset,  on  our  homeward  way, 

I  heard  her  simple  story. 

The  early  crickets  sang  ;  the  stream 
Plashed  through  my  friend's  narration  : 

Her  rustic  patois  of  the  hills 
Lost  in  my  free  translation. 

"  More  wise,"  she  said,  "  than  those  who  swarm 

Our  hills  in  middle  summer, 
She  came,  when  June's  first  roses  blow, 
To  greet  the  early  comer. 

"  From  school  and  ball  and  rout  she  came, 

The  city's  fair,  pale  daughter, 

To  drink  the  wine  of  mountain  air 

Beside  the  Bearcamp  Water. 

"  Her  step  grew  firmer  on  the  hills 

That  watch  our  homesteads  over ; 
On  cheek  and  lip,  from  summer  fields, 
She  caught  the  bloom  of  clover. 

"  For  health  comes  sparkling  in  the  streams 

From  cool  Chocorua  stealing  : 
There  's  iron  in  our  Northern  winds  ; 
Our  pines  are  trees  of  healing. 

"  She  sat  beneath  the  broad-armed  elms 

That  skirt  the  mowing-meadow, 
And  watched  the  gentle  west-wind  weave 
The  grass  with  shine  and  shadow. 


270    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

"  Beside  her,  from  the  summer  heat 
To  share  her  grateful  screening, 
With  forehead  bared,  the  farmer  stood, 
Upon  his  pitchfork  leaning. 

"  Framed  in  its  damp,  dark  locks,  his  face 

Had  nothing  mean  or  common,  — 
Strong,  manly,  true,  the  tenderness 
And  pride  beloved  of  woman. 

"  She  looked  up,  glowing  with  the  health 

The  country  air  had  brought  her, 
And,  laughing,  said :  '  You  lack  a  wife, 
Your  mother  lacks  a  daughter. 

"  '  To  mend  your  frock  and  bake  your  bread 

You  do  not  need  a  lady : 
Be  sure  among  these  brown  old  homes 
Is  some  one  waiting  ready,  — 

"  *  Some  fair,  sweet  girl  with  skilful  hand 

And  cheerful  heart  for  treasure, 

Who  never  played  with  ivory  keys, 

Or  danced  the  polka's  measure.' 

"  He  bent  his  black  brows  to  a  frown, 

He  set  his  white  teeth  tightly. 
'  'Tis  well,'  he  said,  '  for  one  like  you 
To  choose  for  me  so  lightly. 

"  '  You  think,  because  my  life  is  rude 

I  take  no  note  of  sweetness  : 
I  tell  you  love  has  naught  to  do 
With  meetness  or  unmeetness. 


AMONG   THE  HILLS  271 

"  *  Itself  its  best  excuse,  it  asks 

No  leave  of  pride  or  fashion 
When  silken  zone  or  homespun  frock 
It  stirs  with  throbs  of  passion. 

"  '  You  think  me  deaf  and  blind :  you  bring 

Your  winning  graces  hither 
As  free  as  if  from  cradle-time 
We  two  had  played  together. 

"  '  You  tempt  me  with  your  laughing  eyes, 

Your  cheek  of  sundown's  blushes, 
A  motion  as  of  waving  grain, 
A  music  as  of  thrushes. 

"  '  The  plaything  of  your  summer  sport, 

The  spells  you  weave  around  me 
You  cannot  at  your  will  undo, 
Nor  leave  me  as  you  found  me. 

" '  You  go  as  lightly  as  you  came, 
Your  life  is  well  without  me ; 
What  care  you  that  these  hills  will  close 
Like  prison-walls  about  me? 

"  '  No  mood  is  mine  to  seek  a  wife, 
Or  daughter  for  my  mother  : 
Who  loves  you  loses  in  that  love 
All  power  to  love  another ! 

" '  I  dare  your  pity  or  your  scorn, 

Writh  pride  your  own  exceeding ; 
I  fling  my  heart  into  your  lap 
Without  a  word  of  pleading.' 


272     NA  ERA  Tl  VE  A  ND  LEG  EN  DA  RY  P  OEMS 

"  She  looked  up  in  his  face  of  pain 

So  archly,  yet  so  tender  : 
'  And  if  I  lend  you  mine,'  she  said, 

4  Will  you  forgive  the  lender  ? 

"  *  Nor  frock  nor  tan  can  hide  the  man ; 

And  see  you  not,  my  farmer, 
How  weak  and  fond  a  woman  waits 
Behind  this  silken  armor  ? 

"  '  I  love  you  :  on  that  love  alone, 

And  not  my  worth,  presuming, 
Will  you  not  trust  for  summer  fruit 
The  tree  in  May-day  blooming  ?  ' 

"  Alone  the  hangbird  overhead, 

His  hair-swung  cradle  straining, 
Looked  down  to  see  love's  miracle,  — 
The  giving  that  is  gaining. 

"  And  so  the  farmer  found  a  wife, 
His  mother  found  a  daughter : 
There  looks  no  happier  home  than  hers 
On  pleasant  Bearcamp  Water. 

"  Flowers  spring  to  blossom  where  she  walks 

The  careful  ways  of  duty  ; 
Our  hard,  stiff  lines  of  life  with  her 
Are  flowing  curves  of  beauty. 

"  Our  homes  are  cheerier  for  her  sake, 
Our  door-yards  brighter  blooming, 
And  all  about  the  social  air 
Is  sweeter  for  her  coming. 


AMONG   THE  HILLS  273 

"  Unspoken  homilies  of  peace 

Her  daily  life  is  preaching ; 

The  still  refreshment  of  the  dew 

Is  her  unconscious  teaching. 

"  And  never  tenderer  hand  than  hers 

Unknits  the  brow  of  ailing ; 
Her  garments  to  the  sick  man's  ear 
Have  music  in  their  trailing. 

"  And  when,  in  pleasant  harvest  moons, 

The  youthful  huskers  gather, 
Or  sleigh-drives  on  the  mountain  ways 
Defy  the  winter  weather,  — 

"  In  sugar-camps,  when  south  and  warm 

The  winds  of  March  are  blowing, 
And  sweetly  from  its  thawing  veins 
The  maple's  blood  is  flowing,  — 

"  In  summer,  where  some  lilied  pond 

Its  virgin  zone  is  baring, 
Or  where  the  ruddy  autumn  fire 
Lights  up  the  apple-paring,  — 

"  The  coarseness  of  a  ruder  time 

Her  finer  mirth  displaces, 
A  subtler  sense  of  pleasure  fills 
Each  rustic  sport  she  graces. 

"  Her  presence  lends  its  warmth  and  health 

To  all  who  come  before  it. 
If  woman  lost  us  Eden,  such 
As  she  alone  restore  it. 


274    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

"  For  larger  life  and  wiser  aims 

The  farmer  is  her  debtor ; 
Who  holds  to  his  another's  heart 
Must  needs  be  worse  or  better. 

"  Through  her  his  civic  service  shows 

A  purer-toned  ambition  ; 
No  double  consciousness  divides 
The  man  and  politician. 

"  In  party's  doubtful  ways  he  trusts 

Her  instincts  to  determine  ; 
At  the  loud  polls,  the  thought  of  her 
Recalls  Christ's  Mountain  Sermon. 

"  He  owns  her  logic  of  the  heart, 

And  wisdom  of  unreason, 
Supplying,  while  he  doubts  and  weighs, 
The  needed  word  in  season. 

"  He  sees  with  pride  her  richer  thought, 

Her  fancy's  freer  ranges  ; 
And  love  thus  deepened  to  respect 
Is  proof  against  all  changes. 

"  And  if  she  walks  at  ease  in  ways 

His  feet  are  slow  to  travel, 
And  if  she  reads  with  cultured  eyes 
What  his  may  scarce  unravel, 

"  Still  clearer,  for  her  keener  sight 

Of  beauty  and  of  wonder, 
He  learns  the  meaning  of  the  hills 
He  dwelt  from  childhood  under. 


AMONG    THE  HILLS  275 

"  And  higher,  warmed  with  summer  lights, 

Or  winter-crowned  and  hoary, 
The  ridged  horizon  lifts  for  him 
Its  inner  veils  of  glory. 

"  He  has  his  own  free,  bookless  lore, 

The  lessons  nature  taught  him, 
The  wisdom  which  the  woods  and  hills 
And  toiling  men  have  brought  him  : 

"  The  steady  force  of  will  whereby 

Her  flexile  grace  seems  sweeter ; 
The  sturdy  counterpoise  which  makes 
Her  woman's  life  completer  ; 

"  A  latent  fire  of  soul  which  lacks 

No  breath  of  love  to  fan  it ; 
And  wit,  that,  like  his  native  brooks, 
Plays  over  solid  granite. 

"  How  dwarfed  against  his  manliness 

She  sees  the  poor  pretension, 
The  wants,  the  aims,  the  follies,  born 
Of  fashion  and  convention  ! 

"  How  life  behind  its  accidents 

Stands  strong  and  self-sustaining, 
The  human  fact  transcending  all 
The  losing  and  the  gaining. 

"  And  so  in  grateful  interchange 

Of  teacher  and  of  hearer, 
Their  lives  their  true  distinctness  keep 
While  daily  drawing  nearer. 


276     NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

"  And  if  the  husband  or  the  wife 

In  home's  strong  light  discovers 
Such  slight  defaults  as  failed  to  meet 
The  blinded  eyes  of  lovers, 

"  Why  need  we  care  to  ask  ?  —  who  dreams 

Without  their  thorns  of  roses, 

Or  wonders  that  the  truest  steel 

The  readiest  spark  discloses  ? 

"  For  still  in  mutual  sufferance  lies 

The  secret  of  true  living ; 
Love  scarce  is  love  that  never  knows 
The  sweetness  of  forgiving. 

"  We  send  the  Squire  to  General  Court, 

He  takes  his  young  wife  thither  ; 
No  prouder  man  election  day 

Rides  through  the  sweet  June  weather. 

"  He  sees  with  eyes  of  manly  trust 

All  hearts  to  her  inclining  ; 
Not  less  for  him  his  household  light 
That  others  share  its  shining." 

Thus,  while  my  hostess  spake,  there  grew 

Before  me,  warmer  tinted 
And  outlined  with  a  tenderer  grace, 

The  picture  that  she  hinted. 

The  sunset  smouldered  as  we  drove 
Beneath  the  deep  hill-shadows. 

Below  us  wreaths  of  white  fog  walked 
Like  ghosts  the  haunted  meadows. 


THE  DOLE   OF  JARL   THORKELL        277 

Sounding  the  summer  night,  the  stars 
Dropped  down  their  golden  plummets  ; 

The  pale  arc  of  the  Northern  lights 
Rose  o'er  the  mountain  summits, 

Until,  at  last,  beneath  its  bridge, 
We  heard  the  Bearcamp  flowing, 

And  saw  across  the  mapled  lawn 
The  welcome  home-lights  glowing. 

And,  musing  on  the  tale  I  heard, 
'T  were  well,  thought  I,  if  often 

To  rugged  farm-life  came  the  gift 
To  harmonize  and  soften ; 

If  more  and  more  we  found  the  troth 

Of  fact  and  fancy  plighted, 
And  culture's  charm  and  labor's  strength 

In  rural  homes  united,  — 

The  simple  life,  the  homely  hearth, 
With  beauty's  sphere  surrounding, 

And  blessing  toil  where  toil  abounds 
With  graces  more  abounding. 

1868. 


THE  DOLE   OF  JARL  THORKELL. 

THE  land  was  pale  with  famine 
And  racked  with  fever-pain  ; 

The  frozen  fiords  were  fishless, 
The  earth  withheld  her  grain. 


278     NARRA  TIVE  AND  LEGEND  A  R  Y  POEMS 

Men  saw  the  boding  Fylgja 

Before  them  come  and  go, 
And,  through  their  dreams,  the  Urdarmoon 

From  west  to  east  sailed  slow  ! 

Jarl  Thorkell  of  Thevera 

At  Yule-time  made  his  vow ; 
On  Rykdal's  holy  Doom-stone 

He  slew  to  Frey  his  cow. 

To  bounteous  Frey  he  slew  her  ; 

To  Skuld,  the  younger  Norn, 
Who  watches  over  birth  and  death, 

He  gave  her  calf  unborn. 

And  his  little  gold-haired  daughter 

Took  up  the  sprinkling-rod, 
And  smeared  with  blood  the  temple 

And  the  wide  lips  of  the  god. 

Hoarse  below,  the  winter  water 

Ground  its  ice-blocks  o'er  and  o'er ; 

Jets  of  foam,  like  ghosts  of  dead  waves, 
Rose  and  fell  along  the  shore. 

The  red  torch  of  the  Jokul, 

Aloft  in  icy  space, 
Shone  down  on  the  bloody  Horg-stones 

And  the  statue's  carven  face. 

And  closer  round  and  grimmer 

Beneath  its  baleful  light 
The  Jotun  shapes  of  mountains 

Came  crowding  through  the  night. 


THE  DOLE  OF  JARL    THORKELL        279 

The  gray-haired  Hersir  trembled 

As  a  flame  by  wind  is  blown ; 
A  weird  power  moved  his  white  lips, 

And  their  voice  was  not  his  own ! 

"The  Msir  thirst !  "  he  muttered ; 

"  The  gods  must  have  more  blood 
Before  the  tun  shall  blossom 
Or  fish  shall  fill  the  flood. 

"  The  ^Esir  thirst  and  hunger, 

And  hence  our  blight  and  ban ; 

The  mouths  of  the  strong  gods  water 

For  the  flesh  and  blood  of  man ! 

"  Whom  shall  we  give  the  strong  ones  ? 

Not  warriors,  sword  on  thigh ; 
But  let  the  nursling  infant 
And  bedrid  old  man  die." 

"  So  be  it !  "  cried  the  young  men, 

"  There  needs  nor  doubt  nor  parle." 
But,  knitting  hard  his  red  brows, 
In  silence  stood  the  Jarl. 

A  sound  of  woman's  weeping 

At  the  temple  door  was  heard, 
But  the  old  men  bowed  their  white  heads, 

And  answered  not  a  word. 

Then  the  Dream-wife  of  Thingvalla, 

A  Vala  young  and  fair, 
Sang  softly,  stirring  with  her  breath 

The  veil  of  her  loose  hair. 


280    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

She  saug :  "  The  winds  from  Alf heim 

Bring  never  sound  of  strife  ; 
The  gifts  for  Frey  the  meetest 

Are  not  of  death,  but  life. 

"  He  loves  the  grass-green  meadows, 
The  grazing  kine's  sweet  breath  ; 
He  loathes  your  bloody  Horg-stones, 
Your  gifts  that  smell  of  death. 

"  No  wrong  by  wrong  is  righted, 

No  pain  is  cured  by  pain  ; 
The  blood  that  smokes  from  Doom-rings 
Falls  back  in  redder  rain. 

"  The  gods  are  what  you  make  them, 

As  earth  shall  Asgard  prove  ; 
And  hate  will  come  of  hating, 
And  love  will  come  of  love. 

"  Make  dole  of  skyr  and  black  bread 

That  old  and  young  may  live  ; 
And  look  to  Frey  for  favor 
When  first  like  Frey  you  give. 

"  Even  now  o'er  Njord's  sea-meadows 

The  summer  dawn  begins  : 
The  tun  shall  have  its  harvest, 
The  fiord  its  glancing  fins." 

Then  up  and  swore  Jarl  Thorkell : 

"  By  Gimli  and  by  Hel, 
O  Vala  of  Thingvalla, 

Thou  singest  wise  and  well! 


THE  DOLE   OF  JARL    THORKELL        281 

"  Too  dear  the  ^Esir's  favors 

Bought  with  our  children's  lives  ; 
Better  die  than  shame  in  living 
Our  mothers  and  our  wives. 

"  The  full  shall  give  his  portion 

To  him  who  hath  most  need  ; 
Of  curdled  skyr  and  black  bread, 
Be  daily  dole  decreed." 

He  broke  from  off  his  neck-chain 

Three  links  of  beaten  gold  ; 
And  each  man,  at  his  bidding, 

Brought  gifts  for  young  and  old. 

Then  mothers  nursed  their  children, 
And  daughters  fed  their  sires, 

And  Health  sat  down  with  Plenty 
Before  the  next  Yule  fires. 

The  Horg-stones  stand  in  Eykdal  ; 

The  Doom-ring  still  remains  ; 
But  the  snows  of  a  thousand  winters 

Have  washed  away  the  stains. 


Christ  ruleth  now  ;  the 

Have  found  their  twilight  dim  ; 
And,  wiser  than  she  dreamed,  of  old 

The  Yala  sang  of  Him  ! 

1868. 


282    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 


THE  TWO  KABBINS. 

THE  Eabbi  Nathan  twoscore  years  and  ten 
Walked   blameless  through  the   evil   world,    and 

then, 

Just  as  the  almond  blossomed  in  his  hair, 
Met  a  temptation  all  too  strong  to  bear, 
And  miserably  sinned.     So,  adding  not 
Falsehood  to  guilt,  he  left  his  seat,  and  taught 
No  more  among  the  elders,  but  went  out 
From  the  great  congregation  girt  about 
With  sackcloth,  and  with  ashes  on  his  head, 
Making  his  gray  locks  grayer.     Long  he  prayed, 
Smiting  his  breast ;  then,  as  the  Book  he  laid 
Open  before  him  for  the  Bath-Col's  choice, 
Pausing  to  hear  that  Daughter  of  a  Voice, 
Behold  the  royal  preacher's  words  :  "  A  friend 
Loveth  at  all  times,  yea,  unto  the  end ; 
And  for  the  evil  day  thy  brother  lives." 
Marvelling,  he  said  :  "  It  is  the  Lord  who  gives 
Counsel  in  need.     At  Ecbatana  dwells 
Rabbi  Ben  Isaac,  who  all  men  excels 
In  righteousness  and  wisdom,  as  the  trees 
Of  Lebanon  the  small  weeds  that  the  bees 
Bow  with  their  weight.     I  will  arise,  and  lay 
My  sins  before  him." 

And  he  went  his  way 

Barefooted,  fasting  long,  with  many  prayers ; 
But  even  as  one  who,  followed  unawares, 
Suddenly  in  the  darkness  feels  a  hand 
Thrill  with  its  touch  his  own,  and  his  cheek  fanned 


THE   TWO  RABBINS  283 

By  odors  subtly  sweet,  and  whispers  near 

Of  words  he  loathes,  yet  cannot  choose  but  hear, 

So,  while  the  Kabbi  journeyed,  chanting  low 

The  wail  of  David's  penitential  woe, 

Before  him  still  the  old  temptation  came, 

And  mocked  him  with  the  motion  and  the  shame 

Of  such  desires  that,  shuddering-,  he  abhorred 

Himself  ;  and,  crying  mightily  to  the  Lord 

To  free  his  soul  and  cast  the  demon  out, 

Smote  with  his  staff  the  blankness  round  about. 

At  length,  in  the  low  light  of  a  spent  day, 
The  towers  of  Ecbatana  far  away 
Rose  on  the  desert's  rim ;  and  Nathan,  faint 
And    footsore,    pausing  where    for    some    dead 

saint 

The  faith  of  Islam  reared  a  domed  tomb, 
Saw  some  one  kneeling  in  the  shadow,  whom 
He  greeted  kindly  :  "  May  the  Holy  One 
Answer  thy  prayers,  O  stranger  !  "     Whereupon 
The  shape  stood  up  with  a  loud  cry,  and  then, 
Clasped  in  each  other's  arms,  the  two  gray  men 
Wept,  praising  Him  whose  gracious  providence 
Made  their  paths  one.     But  straightway,  as  the 


Of  his  transgression  smote  him,  Nathan  tore 
Himself  away  :  "  O  friend  beloved,  no  more 
Worthy  am  I  to  touch  thee,  for  I  came, 
Foul  from  my  sins,  to  tell  thee  all  my  shame. 
Haply  thy  prayers,  since  naught  availeth  mine, 
May   purge    my   soul,    and   make    it   white    like 

thine. 
Pity  me,  O  Ben  Isaac,  I  have  sinned  1  " 


284     NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

Awestruck  Ben  Isaac  stood.     The  desert  wind 

Blew  his  long  mantle  backward,  laying  bare 

The  mournful  secret  of  his  shirt  of  hair. 

"  I  too,  O  friend,  if  not  in  act,"  he  said, 

"  In  thought  have  verily  sinned.     Hast  thou  not 

read, 

'  Better  the  eye  should  see  than  that  desire 
Should  wander  ?  '     Burning  with  a  hidden  fire 
That  tears  and  prayers  quench  not,  I  come  to  thee 
For  pity  and  for  help,  as  thou  to  me. 
Pray  for  me,  O  my  friend  !  "     But  Nathan  cried, 
"  Pray  thou  for  me,  Ben  Isaac  !  " 

Side  by  side 

In  the  low  sunshine  by  the  turban  stone 
They  knelt ;  each  made  his  brother's  woe  his  own, 
Forgetting,  in  the  agony  and  stress 
Of  pitying  love,  his  claim  of  selfishness  ; 
Peace,  for  his  friend  besought,  his  own  became ; 
His  prayers  were  answered  in  another's  name  ; 
And,  when  at  last  they  rose  up  to  embrace, 
Each  saw  God's  pardon  in  his  brother's  face  ! 

Long  after,  when  his  headstone  gathered  moss, 
Traced  on  the  targum-marge  of  Onkelos 
In  Rabbi  Nathan's  hand  these  words  were  read : 
"  Hope  not  the  cure  of  sin  till  Self  is  dead  ; 
Forget  it  in  love's  service,  and  the,  debt 
Thou  canst  not  pay  the  angels  shall  forget  ; 
Heaven's  gate  is  shut  to  him  who  comes  alone; 
Save  thou  a  soul,  and  it  shall  save  thy  own  !  " 
1868. 


NOREMBEGA  285 


NOREMBEGA. 

Norembega,  or  Norimbegue,  is  the  name  given  by  early  French 
fishermen  and  explorers  to  a  fabulous  country  south  of  Cape 
Breton,  first  discovered  by  Verrazzani  in  1524.  It  was  supposed 
to  have  a  magnificent  city  of  the  same  name  on  a  great  river,  prob- 
ably the  Penobscot.  The  site  of  this  barbaric  city  is  laid  down 
on  a  map  published  at  Antwerp  in  1570.  In  1604  Champlain  sailed 
in  search  of  the  Northern  Eldorado,  twenty-two  leagues  up  the 
Penobscot  from  the  Isle  Haute.  He  supposed  the  river  to  be  that 
of  Norembega,  but  wisely  came  to  the  conclusion  that  those  trav- 
ellers who  told  of  the  great  city  had  never  seen  it.  He  saw  no 
evidences  of  anything  like  civilization,  but  mentions  the  finding  of 
a  cross,  very  old  and  mossy,  in  the  woods. 

THE  winding  way  the  serpent  takes 

The  mystic  water  took, 
From  where,  to  count  its  beaded  lakes, 

The  forest  sped  its  brook. 

A  narrow  space  'twixt  shore  and  shore, 

For  sun  or  stars  to  fall, 
While  evermore,  behind,  before, 

Closed  in  the  forest  wall. 

The  dim  wood  hiding  underneath 

Wan  flowers  without  a  name ; 
Life  tangled  with  decay  and  death, 

League  after  league  the  same. 

Unbroken  over  swamp  and  hill 

The  rounding  shadow  lay, 
Save  where  the  river  cut  at  will 

A  pathway  to  the  day. 


286    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

Beside  that  track  of  air  and  light, 

Weak  as  a  child  unweaned, 
At  shut  of  day  a  Christian  knight 

Upon  his  henchman  leaned. 

The  embers  of  the  sunset's  fires 

Along  the  clouds  burned  down  ; 
"  I  see,"  he  said,  "  the  domes  and  spires 
Of  Norembega  town." 

"  Alack !  the  domes,  O  master  mine, 

Are  golden  clouds  on  high  ; 
Yon  spire  is  but  the  branchless  pine 
That  cuts  the  evening  sky." 

"  Oh,  hush  and  hark  1     What  sounds  are  these 

But  chants  and  holy  hymns  ?  " 
"  Thou  hear'st  the  breeze  that  stirs  the  trees 

Through  all  their  leafy  limbs." 

"  Is  it  a  chapel  bell  that  fills 

The  air  with  its  low  tone  ?  " 
"  Thou  hear'st  the  tinkle  of  the  rills, 

The  insect's  vesper  drone." 

"  The  Christ  be  praised  !  —  He  sets  for  me 

A  blessed  cross  in  sight !  " 
"  Now,  nay,  't  is  but  yon  blasted  tree 

With  two  gaunt  arms  outright !  " 

"  Be  it  wind  so  sad  or  tree  so  stark, 

It  mattereth  not,  my  knave ; 
Methinks  to  funeral  hymns  I  hark, 
The  cross  is  for  my  grave ! 


NOREMDEGA  287 

"  My  life  is  sped ;  I  shall  not  see 

My  home-set  sails  again  ; 
The  sweetest  eyes  of  Normandie 
Shall  watch  for  me  in  vain. 

"  Yet  onward  still  to  ear  and  eye 

The  baffling  marvel  calls  ; 
I  fain  would  look  before  I  die 
On  Norembega's  walls. 

"  So,  haply,  it  shall  be  thy  part 

At  Christian  feet  to  lay 
The  mystery  of  the  desert's  heart 
My  dead  hand  plucked  away. 

"  Leave  me  an  hour  of  rest ;  go  thou 

And  look  from  yonder  heights  ; 
Perchance  the  valley  even  now 
Is  starred  with  city  lights." 

The  henchman  climbed  the  nearest  hill, 

He  saw  nor  tower  nor  town, 
But,  through  the  drear  woods,  lone  and  still, 

The  river  rolling  down. 

He  heard  the  stealthy  feet  of  things 

Whose  shapes  he  could  not  see, 
A  flutter  as  of  evil  wings, 

The  fall  of  a  dead  tree. 

The  pines  stood  black  against  the  moon, 

A  sword  of  fire  beyond  ; 
He  heard  the  wolf  howl,  and  the  loon 

Laugh  from  his  reedy  pond. 


288     NA  RRA  TIVE  AND  LEGEND  A  R  Y  POEMS 

He  turned  him  back :  "  O  master  dear, 

We  are  but  men  misled  ; 
And  thou  hast  sought  a  city  here 

To  find  a  grave  instead." 

"  As  God  shall  will !  what  matters  where 

A  true  man's  cross  may  stand, 
So  Heaven  be  o'er  it  here  as  there 
In  pleasant  Norman  land  ? 

"  These  woods,  perchance,  no  secret  hide 

Of  lordly  tower  and  hall ; 
Yon  river  in  its  wanderings  wide 
Has  washed  no  city  wall ; 

"  Yet  mirrored  in  the  sullen  stream 

The  holy  stars  are  given  : 
Is  Norembega,  then,  a  dream 
Whose  waking  is  in  Heaven  ? 

"  No  builded  wonder  of  these  lands 

My  weary  eyes  shall  see ; 
A  city  never  made  with  hands 
Alone  awaiteth  me  — 

"  *  Urls  Syon  mystica  ;  '  I  see 
Its  mansions  passing  fair, 
*  Condita  ccelo  ;  '  let  me  be, 
Dear  Lord,  a  dweller  there  !  " 

Above  the  dying  exile  hung 

The  vision  of  the  bard, 
As  faltered  on  his  failing  tongue 

The  song  of  good  Bernard. 


MIRIAM  289 

The  henchman  dug  at  dawn  a  grave 

Beneath  the  hemlocks  brown, 
And  to  the  desert's  keeping  gave 

The  lord  of  fief  and  town. 

Years  after,  when  the  Sieur  Champlain 

Sailed  up  the  unknown  stream, 
And  Norembega  proved  again 

A  shadow  and  a  dream, 

He  found  the  Norman's  nameless  grave 

Within  the  hemlock's  shade, 
And,  stretching  wide  its  arms  to  save, 

The  sign  that  God  had  made, 

The  cross-boughed  tree  that  marked  the  spot 

And  made  it  holy  ground : 
He  needs  the  earthly  city  not 

Who  hath  the  heavenly  found. 


MIRIAM. 

TO   FREDERICK   A.    P.    BARNARD. 

THE  years  are  many  since,  in  youth  and  hope, 
Under  the  Charter  Oak,  our  horoscope 
We  drew  thick-studded  with  all  favoring  stars. 
Now,  with  gray  beards,  and  faces  seamed  with  scars 
From  life's  hard  battle,  meeting  once  again, 
We  smile,  half  sadly,  over  dreams  so  vain ; 
Knowing,  at  last,  that  it  is  not  in  man 
Who  walketh  to  direct  his  steps,  or  plan 


290     NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

His  permanent  house  of  life.     Alike  we  loved 

The  muses'  haunts,  and  all  our  fancies  moved 

To  measures  of  old  song.     How  since  that  day 

Our  feet  have  parted  from  the  path  that  lay 

So  fair  before  us  !     Rich,  from  lifelong  search 

Of  truth,  within  thy  Academic  porch 

Thou  sittest  now,  lord  of  a  realm  of  fact, 

Thy  servitors  the  sciences  exact ; 

Still  listening  with  thy  hand  on  Nature's  keys, 

To  hear  the  Samian's  spheral  harmonies 

And  rhythm  of  law.     I  called   from  dream  and 

song, 

Thank  God !  so  early  to  a  strife  so  long, 
That,  ere  it  closed,  the  black,  abundant  hair 
Of  boyhood  rested  silver-sown  and  spare 
On  manhood's  temples,  now  at  sunset-chime 
Tread  with  fond  feet  the  path  of  morning  time. 
And  if  perchance  too  late  I  linger  where 
The  flowers  have  ceased  to  blow,  and  trees  are  bare, 
Thou,  wiser  in  thy  choice,  wilt  scarcely  blame 
The  friend  who  shields  his  folly  with  thy  name. 
AMESBUKY,  10th  mo.,  1870. 


One  Sabbath  day  my  friend  and  I 

After  the  meeting,  quietly 

Passed  from  the  crowded  village  lanes, 

White  with  dry  dust  for  lack  of  rains, 

And  climbed  the  neighboring  slope,  with  feet 

Slackened  and  heavy  from  the  heat, 

Although  the  day  was  wellnigh  done, 

And  the  low  angle  of  the  sun 


MIRIAM  291 

Along  the  naked  hillside  cast 

Our  shadows  as  of  giants  vast. 

We  reached,  at  length,  the  topmost  swell, 

Whence,  either  way,  the  green  turf  fell 

In  terraces  of  nature  down 

To  fruit-hung  orchards,  and  the  town 

With  white,  pretenceless  houses,  tall 

Church-steeples,  and,  o'ershadowing  all, 

Huge  mills  whose  windows  had  the  look 

Of  eager  eyes  that  ill  could  brook 

The  Sabbath  rest.     We  traced  the  track 

Of  the  sea-seeking  river  back, 

Glistening  for  miles  above  its  mouth, 

Through  the  long  valley  to  the  south, 

And,  looking  eastward,  cool  to  view, 

Stretched  the  illimitable  blue 

Of  ocean,  from  its  curved  coast-line  ; 

Sombred  and  still,  the  warm  sunshine 

Filled  with  pale  gold-dust  all  the  reach 

Of  slumberous  woods  from  hill  to  beach,  — 

Slanted  on  walls  of  thronged  retreats 

From  city  toil  and  dusty  streets, 

On  grassy  bluff,  and  dune  of  sand, 

And  rocky  islands  miles  from  land ; 

Touched  the  far-glancing  sails,  and  showed 

White  lines  of  foam  where  long  waves  flowed 

Dumb  in  the  distance.     In  the  north, 

Dim  through  their  misty  hair,  looked  forth 

The  space-dwarfed  mountains  to  the  sea, 

From  mystery  to  mystery  ! 

So,  sitting  on  that  green  hill-slope, 
We  talked  of  human  life,  its  hope 


292     NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

And  fear,  and  unsolved  doubts,  and  what 

It  might  have  been,  and  yet  was  not. 

And,  when  at  last  the  evening  air 

Grew  sweeter  for  the  bells  of  prayer 

Ringing  in  steeples  far  below, 

We  watched  the  people  churchward  go, 

Each  to  his  place,  as  if  thereon 

The  true  shekinah  only  shone ; 

And  my  friend  queried  how  it  came 

To  pass  that  they  who  owned  the  same 

Great  Master  still  could  not  agree 

To  worship  Him  in  company. 

Then,  broadening  in  his  thought,  he  ran 

Over  the  whole  vast  field  of  man,  — 

The  varying  forms  of  faith  and  creed 

That  somehow  served  the  holders'  need  ; 

In  which,  unquestioned,  undenied, 

Uncounted  millions  lived  and  died  ; 

The  bibles  of  the  ancient  folk, 

Through  which  the  heart  of  nations  spoke  ; 

The  old  moralities  which  lent 

To  home  its  sweetness  and  content, 

And  rendered  possible  to  bear 

The  life  of  peoples  everywhere  : 

And  asked  if  we,  who  boast  of  light, 

Claim  not  a  too  exclusive  right 

To  truths  which  must  for  all  be  meant, 

Like  rain  and  sunshine  freely  sent. 

In  bondage  to  the  letter  still, 

We  give  it  power  to  cramp  and  kill,  — 

To  tax  God's  fulness  with  a  scheme 

Narrower  than  Peter's  house-top  dream, 

His  wisdom  and  his  love  with  plans 


MIRIAM  293 

Poor  and  inadequate  as  man's. 

It  must  be  that  He  witnesses 

Somehow  to  all  men  that  He  is : 

That  something  of  His  saving  grace 

Reaches  the  lowest  of  the  race, 

Who,  through  strange  creed  and  rite,  may  draw 

The  hints  of  a  diviner  law. 

We  walk  in  clearer  light ;  —  but  then, 

Is  He  not  God  ?  —  are  they  not  men  ? 

Are  His  responsibilities 

For  us  alone  and  not  for  these  ? 

And  I  made  answer  :  "  Truth  is  one ; 
And,  in  all  lands  beneath  the  sun, 
Whoso  hath  eyes  to  see  may  see 
The  tokens  of  its  unity. 
No  scroll  of  creed  its  fulness  wraps, 
We  trace  it  not  by  school-boy  maps, 
Free  as  the  sun  and  air  it  is 
Of  latitudes  and  boundaries. 
In  Vedic  verse,  in  dull  Koran, 
Are  messages  of  good  to  man ; 
The  angels  to  our  Aryan  sires 
Talked  by  the  earliest  household  fires ; 
The  prophets  of  the  elder  day, 
The  slant-eyed  sages  of  Cathay, 
Read  not  the  riddle  all  amiss 
Of  higher  life  evolved  from  this. 

"  Nor  doth  it  lessen  what  He  taught, 
Or  make  the  gospel  Jesus  brought 
Less  precious,  that  His  lips  retold 
Some  portion  of  that  truth  of  old ; 


294  NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

Denying  not  the  proven  seers, 

The  tested  wisdom  of  the  years  ; 

Confirming  with  his  own  impress 

The  common  law  of  righteousness. 

We  search  the  world  for  truth  ;  we  cull 

The  good,  the  pure,  the  beautiful, 

From  graven  stone  and  written  scroll, 

From  all  old  flower-fields  of  the  soul ; 

And,  weary  seekers  of  the  best, 

We  come  back  laden  from  our  quest, 

To  find  that  all  the  sages  said 

Is  in  the  Book  our  mothers  read, 

And  all  our  treasure  of  old  thought 

In  His  harmonious  fulness  wrought 

Who  gathers  in  one  sheaf  complete 

The  scattered  blades  of  God's  sown  wheat, 

The  common  growth  that  maketh  good 

His  all-embracing  Fatherhood. 

"  Wherever  through  the  ages  rise 
The  altars  of  self-sacrifice, 
Where  love  its  arms  has  opened  wide, 
Or  man  for  man  has  calmly  died, 
I  see  the  same  white  wings  outspread 
That  hovered  o'er  the  Master's  head ! 
Up  from  undated  time  they  come, 
The  martyr  souls  of  heathendom, 
And  to  His  cross  and  passion  bring 
Their  fellowship  of  suffering. 
I  trace  His  presence  in  the  blind 
Pathetic  gropings  of  my  kind,  — 
In  prayers  from  sin  and  sorrow  wrung, 
In  cradle-hymns  of  life  they  sung, 


MIRIAM  295 

Each,  in  its  measure,  but  a  part 

Of  the  unmeasured  Over-Heart ; 

And  with  a  stronger  faith  confess 

The  greater  that  it  owns  the  less. 

Good  cause  it  is  for  thankfulness 

That  the  world-blessing  of  His  life 

With  the  long  past  is  not  at  strife  ; 

That  the  great  marvel  of  His  death 

To  the  one  order  witnesseth, 

No  doubt  of  changeless  goodness  wakes, 

No  link  of  cause  and  sequence  breaks, 

But,  one  with  nature,  rooted  is 

In  the  eternal  verities ; 

Whereby,  while  differing  in  degree 

As  finite  from  infinity, 

The  pain  and  loss  for  others  borne, 

Love's  crown  of  suffering  meekly  worn, 

The  life  man  giveth  for  his  friend 

Become  vicarious  in  the  end  ; 

Their  healing  place  in  nature  take, 

And  make  life  sweeter  for  their  sake. 

"  So  welcome  I  from  every  source 
The  tokens  of  that  primal  Force, 
Older  than  heaven  itself,  yet  new 
As  the  young  heart  it  reaches  to, 
Beneath  whose  steady  impulse  rolls 
The  tidal  wave  of  human  souls ; 
Guide,  comforter,  and  inward  word, 
The  eternal  spirit  of  the  Lord ! 
Nor  fear  I  aught  that  science  brings 
From  searching  through  material  things  ; 
Content  to  let  its  glasses  prove, 


296     NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

Not  by  the  letter's  oldness  move, 

The  myriad  worlds  on  worlds  that  course 

The  spaces  of  the  universe  ; 

Since  everywhere  the  Spirit  walks 

The  garden  of  the  heart,  and  talks 

With  man,  as  under  Eden's  trees, 

In  all  his  varied  languages. 

Why  mourn  above  some  hopeless  flaw 

In  the  stone  tables  of  the  law, 

When  scripture  every  day  afresh 

Is  traced  on  tablets  of  the  flesh  ? 

By  inward  sense,  by  outward  signs, 

God's  presence  still  the  heart  divines  ; 

Through  deepest  joy  of  Him  we  learn, 

In  sorest  grief  to  Him  we  turn, 

And  reason  stoops  its  pride  to  share 

The  child-like  instinct  of  a  prayer." 

And  then,  as  is  my  wont,  I  told 
A  story  of  the  days  of  old, 
Not  found  in  printed  books,  —  in  sooth, 
A  fancy,  with  slight  hint  of  truth, 
Showing  how  differing  faiths  agree 
In  one  sweet  law  of  charity. 
Meanwhile  the  sky  had  golden  grown, 
Our  faces  in  its  glory  shone ; 
But  shadows  down  the  valley  swept, 
And  gray  below  the  ocean  slept, 
As  time  and  space  I  wandered  o'er 
To  tread  the  Mogul's  marble  floor, 
And  see  a  fairer  sunset  fall 
On  Jumna's  wave  and  Agra's  wall. 


MIRIAM  297 

The  good  Shah  Akbar  (peace  be  his  alway !) 
Came  forth  from  the  Divan  at  close  of  day 
Bowed  with  the  burden  of  his  many  cares, 
Worn  with  the  hearing  of  unnumbered  prayers,  — 
Wild  cries  for  justice,  the  importunate 
Appeals  of  greed  and  jealousy  and  hate, 
And  all  the  strife  of  sect  and  creed  and  rite, 
Santon  and  Gouroo  waging  holy  fight : 
For  the  wise  monarch,  claiming  not  to  be 
Allah's  avenger,  left  his  people  free, 
With  a  faint  hope,  his  Book  scarce  justified, 
That  all  the  paths  of  faith,  though  severed  wide, 
O'er  which  the  feet  of  prayerful  reverence  passed, 
Met  at  the  gate  of  Paradise  at  last. 

He  sought  an  alcove  of  his  cool  hareem, 
Where,  far  beneath,  he  heard  the  Jumna's  stream 
Lapse  soft  and  low  along  his  palace  wall, 
And  all  about  the  cool  sound  of  the  fall 
Of  fountains,  and  of  water  circling  free 
Through  marble  ducts  along  the  balcony  ; 
The  voice  of  women  in  the  distance  sweet, 
And,  sweeter  still,  of  one  who,  at  his  feet, 
Soothed  his  tired  ear  with  songs  of  a  far  land 
Where  Tagus  shatters  on  the  salt  sea-sand 
The  mirror  of  its  cork-grown  hills  of  drouth 
And  vales  of  vine,  at  Lisbon's  harbor-mouth. 

The  date-palms  rustled  not ;  the  peepul  laid 
Its  topmost  boughs  against  the  balustrade, 
Motionless  as  the  mimic  leaves  and  vines 
That,  light  and  graceful  as  the  shawl-designs 


298     NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

Of  Delhi  or  Umritsir,  twined  in  stone  ; 
And  the  tired  monarch,  who  aside  had  thrown 
The  day's  hard  burden,  sat  from  care  apart, 
And  let  the  quiet  steal  into  his  heart 
From  the  still  hour.     Below  him  Agra  slept, 
By  the  long  light  of  sunset  overswept : 
The  river  flowing  through  a  level  land, 
By  mango-groves  and  banks  of  yellow  sand, 
Skirted  with  lime  and  orange,  gay  kiosks, 
Fountains  at  play,  tall  minarets  of  mosques, 
Fair  pleasure-gardens,  with  their  flowering  trees 
Relieved  against  the  mournful  cypresses  ; 
And,  air-poised  lightly  as  the  blown  sea-foam, 
The  marble  wonder  of  some  holy  dome 
Hung  a  white  moonrise  over  the  still  wood, 
Glassing  its  beauty  in  a  stiller  flood. 

Silent  the  monarch  gazed,  until  the  night 
Swift-falling  hid  the  city  from  his  sight ; 
Then  to  the  woman  at  his  feet  he  said  : 
"  Tell  me,  O  Miriam,  something  thou  hast  read 
In  childhood  of  the  Master  of  thy  faith, 
Whom  Islam  also  owns.     Our  Prophet  saith : 
'  He  was  a  true  apostle,  yea,  a  Word 
And  Spirit  sent  before  me  from  the  Lord.' 
Thus  the  Book  witnesseth  ;  and  well  I  know 
By  what  thou  art,  O  dearest,  it  is  so. 
As  the  lute's  tone  the  maker's  hand  betrays, 
The  sweet  disciple  speaks  her  Master's  praise." 

Then  Miriam,  glad  of  heart,  (for  in  some  sort 
She  cherished  in  the  Moslem's  liberal  court 
The  sweet  traditions  of  a  Christian  child ; 
And,  through  her  life  of  sense,  the  undefiled 


MIRIAM  299 

And  chaste  ideal  of  the  sinless  One 

Gazed  on  her  with  an  eye  she  might  not  shun,  — 

The  sad,  reproachful  look  of  pity,  born 

Of  love  that  hath  no  part  in  wrath  or  scorn,) 

Began,  with  low  voice  and  moist  eyes,  to  tell 

Of  the  all-loving  Christ,  and  what  befell 

When  the  fierce  zealots,  thirsting  for  her  blood, 

Dragged  to  his  feet  a  shame  of  womanhood. 

How,  when  his  searching  answer  pierced  within 

Each  heart,  and  touched  the  secret  of  its  sin, 

And  her  accusers  fled  his  face  before, 

He  bade  the  poor  one  go  and  sin  no  more. 

And  Akbar  said,  after  a  moment's  thought, 

"  Wise  is  the  lesson  by  thy  prophet  taught ; 

Woe  unto  him  who  judges  and  forgets 

What  hidden  evil  his  own  heart  besets ! 

Something  of  this  large  charity  I  find 

In  all  the  sects  that  sever  human  kind  ; 

I  would  to  Allah  that  their  lives  agreed 

More  nearly  with  the  lesson  of  their  creed ! 

Those  yellow  Lamas  who  at  Meerut  pray 

By  wind  and  water  power,  and  love  to  say : 

4  He  who  forgiveth  not  shall,  unforgiven, 

Fail  of  the  rest  of  Buddha,'  and  who  even 

Spare  the  black  gnat  that  stings  them,  vex  my  ears 

With  the  poor  hates  and  jealousies  and  fears 

Nursed  in  their  human  hives.     That  lean,  fierce 

priest 

Of  thy  own  people,  (be  his  heart  increased 
By  Allah's  love !)  his  black  robes  smelling  yet 
Of  Goa's  roasted  Jews,  have  I  not  met 
Meek-faced,  barefooted,  crying  in  the  street 
The  saying  of  his  prophet  true  and  sweet,  — 
*  He  who  is  merciful  shall  mercy  meet ! ' ' 


300    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

But,  next  day,  so  it  chanced,  as  night  began 
To  fall,  a  murmur  through  the  hareem  ran 
That  one,  recalling  in  her  dusky  face 
The  full-lipped,  mild-eyed  beauty  of  a  race 
Known  as  the  blameless  Ethiops  of  Greek  song, 
Plotting  to  do  her  royal  master  wrong, 
Watching,  reproachful  of  the  lingering  light, 
The  evening  shadows  deepen  for  her  flight, 
Love-guided,  to  her  home  in  a  far  land, 
Now  waited  death  at  the  great  Shah's  command. 

Shapely  as  that  dark  princess  for  whose  smile 
A  world  was  bartered,  daughter  of  the  Nile 
Herself,  and  veiling  in  her  large,  soft  eyes 
The  passion  and  the  languor  of  her  skies, 
The  Abyssinian  knelt  low  at  the  feet 
Of  her  stern  lord  :  "  O  king,  if  it  be  meet, 
And  for  thy  honor's  sake,"  she  said,  "  that  I, 
Who  am  the  humblest  of  thy  slaves,  should  die, 
I  will  not  tax  thy  mercy  to  forgive. 
Easier  it  is  to  die  than  to  outlive 
All  that  life  gave  me,  —  him  whose  wrong  of  thee 
Was  but  the  outcome  of  his  love  for  me, 
Cherished  from  childhood,  when,  beneath  the  shade 
Of  templed  Axum,  side  by  side  we  played. 
Stolen  from  his  arms,  my  lover  followed  me 
Through  weary  seasons  over  land  and  sea  ; 
And  two  days  since,  sitting  disconsolate 
Within  the  shadow  of  the  hareem  gate, 
Suddenly,  as  if  dropping  from  the  sky, 
Down  from  the  lattice  of  the  balcony 
Fell  the  sweet  song  by  Tigre's  cowherds  sung 
In  the  old  music  of  his  native  tongue. 


MIRIAM  301 

He  knew  my  voice,  for  love  is  quick  of  ear, 
Answering  in  song. 

This  night  he  waited  near 
To  fly  with  me.     The  fault  was  mine  alone  : 
He  knew  thee  not,  he  did  but  seek  his  own ; 
Who,  in  the  very  shadow  of  thy  throne, 
Sharing  thy  bounty,  knowing  all  thou  art, 
Greatest  and  best  of  men,  and  in  her  heart 
Grateful  to  tears  for  favor  undeserved, 
Turned  ever  homeward,  nor  one  moment  swerved 
From  her  young  love.     He  looked  into  my  eyes, 
He  heard  my  voice,  and  could  not  otherwise 
Than  he  hath  done  ;  yet,  save  one  wild  embrace 
When  first  we  stood  together  face  to  face, 
And  all  that  fate  had  done  since  last  we  met 
Seemed  but  a  dream  that  left  us  children  yet, 
He  hath  not  wronged  thee  nor  thy  royal  bed  ; 
Spare  him,  O  king  !  and  slay  me  in  his  stead  !  " 

But  over  Akbar's  brows  the  frown  hung  black, 
And,  turning  to  the  eunuch  at  his  back, 
"  Take  them,"  he  said,  "  and  let  the  Jumna's  waves 
Hide  both  my  shame  and  these  accursed  slaves !  " 
His  loathly  length  the  unsexed  bondman  bowed : 
"  On  my  head  be  it !  " 

Straightway  from  a  cloud 
Of  dainty  shawls  and  veils  of  woven  mist 
The  Christian  Miriam  rose,  and,  stooping,  kissed 
The  monarch's  hand.     Loose  down  her  shoulders 

bare 

Swept  all  the  rippled  darkness  of  her  hair, 
Veiling  the  bosom  that,  with  high,  quick  swell 
Of  fear  and  pity,  through  it  rose  and  fell. 


302  NA  RRA  TIVE  AND  LEGEND  A  R  Y  POEMS 

"  Alas !  "  she  cried,  "  hast  thou  forgotten  quite 
The  words  of  Him  we  spake  of  yesternight  ? 
Or  thy  own  prophet's,  '  Whoso  doth  endure 
And  pardon,  of  eternal  life  is  sure  '  ? 
O  great  and  good  !  be  thy  revenge  alone 
Felt  in  thy  mercy  to  the  erring  shown  ; 
Let  thwarted  love  and  youth  their  pardon  plead, 
Who  sinned  but  in  intent,  and  not  in  deed  !  " 

One  moment  the  strong  frame  of  Akbar  shook 
With  the  great  storm  of  passion.     Then  his  look 
Softened  to  her  uplifted  face,  that  still 
Pleaded  more  strongly  than  all  words,  until 
Its  pride  and  anger  seemed  like  overblown, 
Spent  clouds  of  thunder  left  to  tell  alone 
Of  strife  and  overcoming.     With  bowed  head, 
And  smiting  on  his  bosom  :  "  God,"  he  said, 
"  Alone  is  great,  and  let  His  holy  name 
Be  honored,  even  to  His  servant's  shame  ! 
Well  spake  thy  prophet,  Miriam,  —  he  alone 
Who  hath  not  sinned  is  meet  to  cast  a  stone 
At  such  as  these,  who  here  their  doom  await, 
Held  like  myself  in  the  strong  grasp  of  fate. 
They  sinned  through  love,  as  I  through  love  for- 
give; 
Take  them  beyond  my  realm,  but  let  them  live !  " 

And,  like  a  chorus  to  the  words  of  grace, 
The  ancient  Fakir,  sitting  in  his  place, 
Motionless  as  an  idol  and  as  grim, 
In  the  pavilion  Akbar  built  for  him 
Under  the  court-yard  trees,  (for  he  was  wise, 
Knew  Menu's  laws,  and  through  his  close-shut  eyes 


MIRIAM  303 

Saw  things  far  off,  and  as  an  open  book 
Into  the  thoughts  of  other  men  could  look,) 
Began,  half  chant,  half  howling,  to  rehearse 
The  fragment  of  a  holy  Vedic  verse ; 
And  thus  it  ran  :  "  He  who  all  things  forgives 
Conquers  himself  and  all  things  else,  and  lives 
Above  the  reach  of  wrong  or  hate  or  fear, 
Calm  as  the  gods,  to  whom  he  is  most  dear." 

Two  leagues  from  Agra  still  the  traveller  sees 
The  tomb  of  Akbar  through  its  cypress-trees ; 
And,  near  at  hand,  the  marble  walls  that  hide 
The  Christian  Begum  sleeping  at  his  side. 
And  o'er  her  vault  of  burial  (who  shall  tell 
If  it  be  chance  alone  or  miracle  ?) 
The  Mission  press  with  tireless  hand  unrolls 
The  words  of  Jesus  on  its  lettered  scrolls,  — 
Tells,  in  all  tongues,  the  tale  of  mercy  o'er, 
And  bids  the  guilty,  "  Go  and  sin  no  more  !  " 


It  now  was  dew-fall ;  very  still 
The  night  lay  on  the  lonely  hill, 
Down  which  our  homeward  steps  we  bent, 
And,  silent,  through  great  silence  went, 
Save  that  the  tireless  crickets  played 
Their  long,  monotonous  serenade. 
A  young  moon,  at  its  narrowest, 
Curved  sharp  against  the  darkening  west ; 
And,  momently,  the  beacon's  star, 
Slow  wheeling  o'er  its  rock  afar, 
From  out  the  level  darkness  shot 
One  instant  and  again  was  not. 


304     NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

And  then  my  friend  spake  quietly 

The  thought  of  both  :  "  Yon  crescent  see  ! 

Like  Islam's  symbol-moon  it  gives 

Hints  of  the  light  whereby  it  lives : 

Somewhat  of  goodness,  something  true 

From  sun  and  spirit  shining  through 

All  faiths,  all  worlds,  as  through  the  dark 

Of  ocean  shines  the  lighthouse  spark, 

Attests  the  presence  everywhere 

Of  love  and  providential  care. 

The  faith  the  old  Norse  heart  confessed 

In  one  dear  name,  —  the  hopef ulest 

And  tenderest  heard  from  mortal  lips 

In  pangs  of  birth  or  death,  from  ships 

Ice-bitten  in  the  winter  sea, 

Or  lisped  beside  a  mother's  knee,  — 

The  wiser  world  hath  not  outgrown, 

And  the  All-Father  is  our  own  !  " 


NAUHAUGHT,  THE  DEACON. 

NAUHAUGHT,  the  Indian  deacon,  who  of  old 
Dwelt,  poor  but  blameless,  where  his  narrowing 

Cape 

Stretches  its  shrunk  arm  out  to  all  the  winds 
And  the  relentless  smiting  of  the  waves, 
Awoke  one  morning  from  a  pleasant  dream 
Of  a  good  angel  dropping  in  his  hand 
A  fair,  broad  gold-piece,  in  the  name  of  God. 

He  rose  and  went  forth  with  the  early  day 
Far  inland,  where  the  voices  of  the  waves 


NAUHAUGHT,    THE  DEACON  305 

Mellowed  and  mingled  with  the  whispering  leaves, 
As,  through  the  tangle  of  the  low,  thick  woods, 
He   searched  his  traps.      Therein  nor  beast  nor 

bird 

He  found ;  though  meanwhile  in  the  reedy  pools 
The  otter  plashed,  and  underneath  the  pines 
The  partridge  drummed  :  and  as  his  thoughts  went 

back 

To  the  sick  wife  and  little  child  at  home, 
What  marvel  that  the  poor  man  felt  his  faith 
Too  weak  to  bear  its  burden,  —  like  a  rope 
That,  strand  by  strand  uncoiling,  breaks  above 
The  hand  that  grasps  it.     "  Even  now,  O  Lord  ! 
Send  me,"  he  prayed,  "  the  angel  of  my  dream ! 
Nauhaught  is  very  poor  ;  he  cannot  wait." 

Even  as  he  spake  he  heard  at  his  bare  feet 
A  low,  metallic  clink,  and,  looking  down, 
He  saw  a  dainty  purse  with  disks  of  gold 
Crowding  its  silken  net.     Awhile  he  held 
The  treasure  up  before  his  eyes,  alone 
With  his  great  need,  feeling  the  wondrous  coins 
Slide  through  his  eager  fingers,  one  by  one. 
So  then  the  dream  was  true.     The  angel  brought 
One  broad  piece  only  ;  should  he  take  all  these  ? 
Who  would  be  wiser,  in  the  blind,  dumb  woods  ? 
The  loser,  doubtless  rich,  would  scarcely  miss 
This  dropped  crumb  from  a  table  always  full. 
Still,  while  he  mused,  he  seemed  to  hear  the  cry 
Of  a  starved  child  ;  the  sick  face  of  his  wife 
Tempted  him.     Heart  and  flesh  in  fierce  revolt 
Urged  the  wild  license  of  his  savage  youth 
Against  his  later  scruples.     Bitter  toil, 


306      NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

Prayer,  fasting,  dread  of  blame,  and  pitiless  eyes 
To  watch  his  halting,  —  had  he  lost  for  these 
The  freedom  of  the  woods  ;  —  the  hunting-grounds 
Of  happy  spirits  for  a  walled-in  heaven    , 
Of  everlasting  psalms  ?     One  healed  the  sick 
Very  far  off  thousands  of  moons  ago  : 
Had  he  not  prayed  him  night  and  day  to  come 
And  cure  his  bed-bound  wife  ?     Was  there  a  hell  ? 
Were  all  his  fathers'  people  writhing  there  — 
Like  the  poor  shell-fish  set  to  boil  alive  — 
Forever,  dying  never  ?     If  he  kept 
This  gold,  so  needed,  would  the  dreadful  God 
Torment  him  like  a  Mohawk's  captive  stuck 
With  slow-consuming  splinters  ?    Would  the  saints 
And  the  white   angels   dance   and   laugh   to   see 

him 

Burn  like  a  pitch-pine  torck  ?     His  Christian  garb 
Seemed   falling  from    him ;    with    the   fear    and 

shame 

Of  Adam  naked  at  the  cool  of  day, 
He  gazed  around.     A  black  snake  lay  in  coil 
On  the  hot  sand,  a  crow  with  sidelong  eye 
Watched  from  a  dead  bough.     All  his  Indian  lore 
Of  evil  blending  with  a  convert's  faith 
In  the  supernal  terrors  of  the  Book, 
He  saw  the  Tempter  in  the  coiling  snake 
And  ominous,  black-winged  bird ;  and  all  the  while 
The  low  rebuking  of  the  distant  waves 
Stole  in  upon  him  like  the  voice  of  God 
Among  the  trees  of  Eden.     Girding  up 
His  soul's  loins  with  a  resolute  hand,  he  thrust 
The  base  thought  from  him :  "  Nauhaught,  be  a 

man! 


NAUHAUGHT,   THE  DEACON  307 

Starve,  if  need  be  :  but,  while  you  live,  look  out 
From  honest  eyes  on  all  men,  unashamed. 
God  help  me  !     I  am  deacon  of  the  church, 
A  baptized,  praying  Indian  !     Should  I  do 
This  secret  meanness,  even  the  barken  knots 
Of  the  old  trees  would  turn  to  eyes  to  see  it, 
The  birds  would  tell  of  it,  and  all  the  leaves 
Whisper  above  me :  '  Nauhaught  is  a  thief  !  ' 
The  sun  would  know  it,  and  the  stars  that  hide 
Behind  his  light  would  watch  me,  and  at  night 
Follow  me  with  their  sharp,  accusing  eyes. 
Yea,  thou,    God,  seest   me !  "     Then   Nauhaught 

drew 

Closer  his  belt  of  leather,  dulling  thus 
The  pain  of  hunger,  and  walked  bravely  back 
To  the  brown  fishing-hamlet  by  the  sea ; 
And,  pausing  at  the  inn-door,  cheerily  asked : 
"  Who  hath  lost  aught  to-day  ?  " 

"  I,"  said  a  voice ; 

"  Ten  golden  pieces,  in  a  silken  purse, 
My  daughter's  handiwork."     He  looked,  and  lo  ! 
One  stood  before  him  in  a  coat  of  frieze, 
And  the  glazed  hat  of  a  seafaring  man, 
Shrewd-faced,  broad-shouldered,  with  no  trace  of 

wings. 
Marvelling,    he    dropped    within    the    stranger's 

hand 

The  silken  web,  and  turned  to  go  his  way. 
But  the  man  said  :  "  A  tithe  at  least  is  yours ; 
Take  it  in  God's  name  as  an  honest  man." 
And  as  the  deacon's  dusky  fingers  closed 
Over  the  golden  gift,  "  Yea,  in  God's  name 
I  take  it,  with  a  poor  man's  thanks,"  he  said. 


308     NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

So  down  the  street  that,  like  a  river  of  sand, 
Ran,  white  in  sunshine,  to  the  summer  sea, 
He  sought  his  home,  singing  and  praising  God ; 
And  when  his  neighbors  in  their  careless  way 
Spoke  of  the  owner  of  the  silken  purse  — 
A  Wellfleet  skipper,  known  in  every  port 
That  the  Cape  opens  in  its  sandy  wall  — 
He  answered,  with  a  wise  smile,  to  himself : 
"I  saw  the  angel  where  they  see  a  man." 
1870. 


THE  SISTERS. 

ANNIE  and  Ehoda,  sisters  twain, 
Woke  in  the  night  to  the  sound  of  rain, 

The  rush  of  wind,  the  ramp  and  roar 
Of  great  waves  climbing  a  rocky  shore. 

Annie  rose  up  in  her  bed-gown  white, 
And  looked  out  into  the  storm  and  night. 

"  Hush,  and  hearken !  "  she  cried  in  fear, 
"  Hearest  thou  nothing,  sister  dear  ?  " 

"  I  hear  the  sea,  and  the  plash  of  rain, 
And  roar  of  the  northeast  hurricane. 

"  Get  thee  back  to  the  bed  so  warm, 
No  good  comes  of  watching  a  storm. 

"  What  is  it  to  thee,  I  fain  would  know, 
That  waves  are  roaring  and  wild  winds  blow  ? 


THE   SISTERS  309 

"No  lover  of  thine  's  afloat  to  miss 
The  harbor-lights  on  a  night  like  this." 

"  But  I  heard  a  voice  cry  out  my  name, 
Up  from  the  sea  on  the  wind  it  came ! 

"  Twice  and  thrice  have  I  heard  it  call, 
And  the  voice  is  the  voice  of  Estwick  Hall !  " 

On  her  pillow  the  sister  tossed  her  head. 
"  Hall  of  the  Heron  is  safe,"  she  said. 

"  In  the  tautest  schooner  that  ever  swam 
He  rides  at  anchor  in  Anisquam. 

"And,  if  in  peril  from  swamping  sea 
Or  lee  shore  rocks,  would  he  call  on  thee?  " 

But  the  girl  heard  only  the  wind  and  tide, 
And  wringing  her  small  white  hands  she  cried : 

"  O  sister  Ehoda,  there  's  something  wrong ; 
I  hear  it  again,  so  loud  and  long. 

"  *  Annie  !  Annie  ! '  I  hear  it  call, 

And  the  voice  is  the  voice  of  Estwick  Hall !  " 

Up  sprang  the  elder,  with  eyes  aflame, 
"  Thou  liest !     He  never  would  call  thy  name ! 

"  If  he  did,  I  would  pray  the  wind  and  sea 
To  keep  him  forever  from  thee  and  me  !  " 


310      NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

Then  out  of  the  sea  blew  a  dreadful  blast ; 
Like  the  cry  of  a  dying  man  it  passed. 

The  young  girl  hushed  on  her  lips  a  groan, 
But  through  her  tears  a  strange  light  shoiie,  — • 

The  solemn  joy  of  her  heart's  release 
To  own  and  cherish  its  love  in  peace. 

"  Dearest !  "  she  whispered,  under  breath, 
"  Life  was  a  lie,  but  true  is  death. 

"  The  love  I  hid  from  myself  away 
Shall  crown  me  now  in  the  light  of  day. 

"  My  ears  shall  never  to  wooer  list, 
Never  by  lover  my  lips  be  kissed. 

"  Sacred  to  thee  am  I  henceforth, 
Thou  in  heaven  and  I  on  earth  !  " 

She  came  and  stood  by  her  sister's  bed : 
"  Hall  of  the  Heron  is  dead !  "  she  said. 

"  The  wind  and  the  waves  their  work  have  done, 
We  shall  see  him  no  more  beneath  the  sun. 

"  Little  will  reck  that  heart  of  thine, 
It  loved  him  not  with  a  love  like  mine. 

"  I,  for  his  sake,  were  he  but  here, 
Could  hem  and  'broider  thy  bridal  gear, 


MARGUERITE  311 

"  Though  hands  should  tremble  and  eyes  be  wet, 
And  stitch  for  stitch  in  my  heart  be  set. 

"  But  now  my  soul  with  his  soul  I  wed  ; 
Thine  the  living,  and  mine  the  dead !  " 

1871. 


MARGUERITE. 

MASSACHUSETTS    BAY,    1760. 

Upwards  of  one  thousand  of  the  Acadian  peasants  forcibly  taken 
from  their  homes  on  the  Gaspereau  and  Basin  of  Minus  were  as- 
signed to  the  several  towns  of  the  Massachusetts  colony,  the  chil- 
dren being  bound  by  the  authorities  to  service  or  labor. 

THE  robins  sang  in   the  orchard,  the  buds  into 

blossoms  grew ; 
Little  of  human  sorrow  the  buds  and  the  robins 

knew! 

Sick,  in  an  alien  household,  the  poor  French  neu- 
tral lay ; 

Into  her  lonesome  garret  fell  the  light  of  the  April 
day, 

Through  the  dusty  window,  curtained  by  the  spi- 
der's warp  and  woof, 

On  the  loose-laid  floor  of  hemlock,  on  oaken  ribs 
of  roof, 

The  bedquilt's  faded  patchwork,  the  teacups  on  the 

stand, 
The  wheel  with  flaxen  tangle,  as  it  dropped  from 

her  sick  hand ! 


312     NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

What  to  her  was  the  song  of  the  robin,  or  warm 

morning  light, 
As  she  lay  in  the  trance  of  the  dying,  heedless  of 

sound  or  sight  ? 

Done  was  the  work  of  her  hands,  she  had  eaten  her 

bitter  bread ; 
The  world  of  the  alien  people  lay  behind  her  dim 

and  dead. 

But  her  soul  went  back  to  its  child-time ;  she  saw 

the  sun  o'erflow 
With  gold  the  Basin  of  Minas,  and  set  over  Gas- 

pereau ; 

The  low,  bare  flats  at  ebb-tide,  the  rush  of  the  sea 

at  flood, 
Through  inlet  and  creek  and  river,  from  dike  to 

upland  wood ; 

The  gulls  in  the  red  of  morning,  the  fish-hawk's 

rise  and  fall, 
The  drift  of  the  fog  in  moonshine,  over  the  dark 

coast-wall. 

She  saw  the  face  of  her  mother,  she  heard  the  song 

she  sang ; 
And  far  off,  faintly,  slowly,  the  bell  for  vespers 

rang! 

By  her  bed  the  hard-faced  mistress  sat,  smoothing 

the  wrinkled  sheet, 
Peering  into  the  face,  so  helpless,  and  feeling  the 

ice-cold  feet. 


MARGUERITE  313 

With  a  vague  remorse  atoning  for  her  greed  and 

long  abuse, 
By  care  no  longer  heeded  and  pity  too  late  for  use. 

Up  the  stairs  of  the  garret  softly  the  son  of  the 

mistress  stepped, 
Leaned  over  the  head-board,  covering  his  face  with 

his  hands,  and  wept. 

Outspake  the  mother,  who  watched  him  sharply, 

with  brow  a-frown  : 
"  What !    love  you  the  Papist,  the    beggar,  the 

charge  of  the  town  ?  " 

"  Be  she  Papist  or  beggar  who  lies  here,  I  know 

and  God  knows 
I  love  her,  and  fain  would  go  with  her  wherever 


"O  mother!  that  sweet  face  came  pleading,  for 

love  so  athirst. 
You  saw  but  the  town-charge  ;  I  knew  her  God's 

angel  at  first." 

Shaking  her  gray  head,  the  mistress  hushed  down 

a  bitter  cry ; 
And  awed  by  the  silence  and  shadow  of  death 

drawing  nigh, 

She  murmured  a  psalm  of  the  Bible ;  but  closer 

the  young  girl  pressed, 
With  the  last  of  her  life  in  her  fingers,  the  cross 

to  her  breast. 


314    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

"  My  son,  come  away,"  cried  the  mother,  her  voice 

cruel  grown. 
"  She  is  joined  to  her  idols,  like  Ephraim ;  let  her 

alone!  " 

But  he  knelt  with  his  hand  on  her  forehead,  his 

lips  to  her  ear, 
And  he  called  back   the  soul  that  was  passing : 

"Marguerite,  do  you  hear?  " 

She  paused  on  the  threshold  of  Heaven  ;  love,  pity, 

surprise, 
Wistful,  tender,  lit  up  for  an  instant  the  cloud  of 

her  eyes. 

With  his  heart  on  his  lips  he  kissed  her,  but  never 

her  cheek  grew  red, 
And  the  words  the  living  long  for  he  spake  in  the 

ear  of  the  dead. 

And  the  robins  sang  in  the  orchard,  where  buds  to 

blossoms  grew ; 
Of  the  folded  hands  and  the  still  face  never  the 

robins  knew ! 
1871. 


THE  ROBIN. 

MY  old  Welsh  neighbor  over  the  way 
Crept  slowly  out  in  the  sun  of  spring, 

Pushed  from  her  ears  the  locks  of  gray, 
And  listened  to  hear  the  robin  sing. 


THE  ROBIN  815 

Her  grandson,  playing  at  marbles,  stopped, 
And,  cruel  in  sport  as  boys  will  be, 

Tossed  a  stone  at  the  bird,  who  hopped 
From  bough  to  bough  in  the  apple-tree. 

"  Nay  !  "  said  the  grandmother ;  "  have  you  not 

heard, 

My  poor,  bad  boy  !  of  the  fiery  pit, 
And  how,  drop  by  drop,  this  merciful  bird 
Carries  the  water  that  quenches  it  ? 

"  He  brings  cool  dew  in  his  little  bill, 

And  lets  it  fall  on  the  souls  of  sin : 
You  can  see  the  mark  on  his  red  breast  still 
Of  fires  that  scorch  as  he  drops  it  in. 

"  My  poor  Bron   rhuddyn  !    my   breast  -  burned 

bird, 

Singing  so  sweetly  from  limb  to  linib, 
Very  dear  to  the  heart  of  Our  Lord 
Is  he  who  pities  the  lost  like  Him !  " 

"  Amen  ! "  I  said  to  the  beautiful  myth ; 

"  Sing,  bird  of  God,  in  my  heart  as  well : 
Each  good  thought  is  a  drop  wherewith 
To  cool  and  lessen  the  fires  of  hell. 

"  Prayers  of  love  like  rain-drops  fall, 

Tears  of  pity  are  cooling  dew, 
And  dear  to  the  heart  of  Our  Lord  are  all 

Who  suffer  like  Him  in  the  good  they  do !  " 
1871. 


316    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

THE  PENNSYLVANIA.  PILGRIM. 
INTRODUCTORY  NOTE. 

THE  beginning  of  German  emigration  to  America 
may  be  traced  to  the  personal  influence  of  William 
Penn,  who  in  1677  visited  the  Continent,  and  made  the 
acquaintance  of  an  intelligent  and  highly  cultivated  cir- 
cle of  Pietists,  or  Mystics,  who,  reviving  in  the  seven- 
teenth century  the  spiritual  faith  and  worship  of  Tauler 
and  the  "  Friends  of  God  "  in  the  fourteenth,  gathered 
about  the  pastor  Spener,  and  the  young  and  beautiful 
Eleonora  Johanna  Von  Merlau.  In  this  circle  origi- 
nated the  Frankfort  Land  Company,  which  bought  of 
William  Penn,  the  Governor  of  Pennsylvania,  a  tract  of 
land  near  the  new  city  of  Philadelphia. 

The  company's  agent  in  the  New  World  was  a  rising 
young  lawyer,  Francis  Daniel  Pastorius,  son  of  Judge 
Pastorius,  of  Windsheim,  who,  at  the  age  of  seventeen, 
entered  the  University  of  Altorf.  He  studied  law  at 
Strasburg,  Basle,  and  Jena,  and  at  Ratisbon,  the  seat  of 
the  Imperial  Government,  obtained  a  practical  know- 
ledge of  international  polity.  Successful  in  all  his  ex- 
aminations and  disputations,  he  received  the  degree  of 
Doctor  of  Law  at  Nuremberg  in  1676.  In  1679  he  was 
a  law-lecturer  at  Frankfort,  where  he  became  deeply 
interested  in  the  teachings  of  Dr.  Spener.  In  1680-81 
he  travelled  in  France,  England,  Ireland,  and  Italy  with 
his  friend  Herr  Von  Rodeck.  "  I  was,"  he  says,  "  glad 
to  enjoy  again  the  company  of  my  Christian  friends, 
rather  than  be  with  Von  Rodeck  feasting  and  dancing." 
In  1683,  in  company  with  a  small  number  of  German 
Friends,  he  emigrated  to  America,  settling  upon  the 
Frankfort  Company's  tract  between  the  Schuylkill  and 
the  Delaware  rivers.  The  township  was  divided  into 


THE  PENNSYLVANIA   PILGRIM        317 

four  hamlets,  namely,  Germantown,  Krisheim,  Crefield, 
and  Somuierhausen.  Soon  after  liis  arrival  he  united 
himself  with  the  Society  of  Friends,  and  became  one  of 
its  most  able  and  devoted  members,  as  well  as  the  recog- 
nized head  and  lawgiver  of  the  settlement.  He  married, 
two  years  after  his  arrival,  Ann  eke  (Anna),  daughter  of 
Dr.  Klosterman,  of  Muhlheim. 

In  the  year  1688  he  drew  up  a  memorial  against 
slaveholding,  which  was  adopted  by  the  Germantown 
Friends  and  sent  up  to  the  Monthly  Meeting,  and  thence 
to  the  Yearly  Meeting  at  Philadelphia.  It  is  noteworthy 
as  the  first  protest  made  by  a  religious  body  against 
Negro  Slavery.  The  original  document  was  discovered 
in  1844  by  the  Philadelphia  antiquarian,  Nathan  Kite, 
and  published  in  The  Friend  (Vol.  XVIII.  No.  16).  It 
is  a  bold  and  direct  appeal  to  the  best  instincts  of  the 
heart.  "  Have  not,"  he  asks,  "  these  negroes  as  much 
right  to  fight  for  their  freedom  as  you  have  to  keep  them 
slaves  ?  " 

Under  the  wise  direction  of  Pastorius,  the  German- 
town  settlement  grew  and  prospered.  The  inhabitants 
planted  orchards  and  vineyards,  and  surrounded  them- 
selves with  souvenirs  of  their  old  home.  A  large  num- 
ber of  them  were  linen-weavers,  as  well  as  small  farm- 
ers. The  Quakers  were  the  principal  sect,  but  men  of 
all  religions  were  tolerated,  and  lived  together  in  har- 
mony. In  1692  Richard  Frame  published,  in  what  he 
called  verse,  a  Description  of  Pennsylvania,  in  which 
he  alludes  to  the  settlement :  — 

"  The  German  town  of  which  I  spoke  before, 
Which  is  at  least  in  length  one  mile  or  more, 
Where  lives  High  German  people  and  Low  Dutch, 
Whose  trade  in  weaving  linen  cloth  is  much,  — 
There  grows  the  flax,  as  also  you  may  know 
That  from  the  same  they  do  divide  the  tow. 
Their  trade  suits  well  their  habitation,  — 
We  find  convenience  for  tjieir  occupation." 


318    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

Pastorius  seems  to  have  been  on  intimate  terms  with 
William  Penn,  Thomas  Lloyd,  Chief  Justice  Logan, 
Thomas  Story,  and  other  leading  men  in  the  Province 
belonging  to  his  own  religious  society,  as  also  with  Kel- 
pius,  the  learned  Mystic  of  the  Wissahickon,  with  the 
pastor  of  the  Swedes'  church,  and  the  leaders  of  the 
Mennonites.  He  wrote  a  description  of  Pennsylvania, 
which  was  published  at  Frankfort  and  Leipsic  in  1700 
and  1701.  His  Lives  of  the  Saints,  etc.,  written  in  Ger- 
man and  dedicated  to  Professor  Schurmberg,  his  old 
teacher,  was  published  in  1690.  He  left  behind  him 
many  unpublished  manuscripts  covering  a  very  wide 
range  of  subjects,  most  of  which  are  now  lost.  One  huge 
manuscript  folio,  entitled  Hive  Beestock,  Melliotropheum 
Alucar,  or  Husca  Apium,  still  remains,  containing  one 
thousand  pages  with  about  one  hundred  lines  to  a  page. 
It  is  a  medley  of  knowledge  and  fancy,  history,  phi- 
losophy, and  poetry,  written  in  seven  languages.  A 
large  portion  of  his  poetry  is  devoted  to  the  pleasures 
of  gardening,  the  description  of  flowers,  and  the  care 
of  bees.  The  following  specimen  of  his  punning  Latin 
is  addressed  to  an  orchard-pilferer :  — 

"  Quisquis  in  haec  furtim  reptas  viridaria  nostra 
Tangere  fallaci  poma  caveto  manu, 
Si  non  obsequeris  faxit  Deus  omne  quod  opto, 
Cum  malis  nostris  ut  mala  cuncta  feras.'1 

Professor  Oswald  Seidensticker,  to  whose  papers  in 
Der  Deutsche  Pioneer  and  that  able  periodical  the 
Penn  Monthly,  of  Philadelphia,  I  am  indebted  for 
many  of  the  foregoing  facts  in  regard  to  the  German 
pilgrims  of  the  New  World,  thus  closes  his  notice  of 
Pastorius :  — 

"  No  tombstone,  not  even  a  record  of  burial,  indicates 
where  his  remains  have  found  their  last  resting-place, 
and  the  pardonable  desire  to  associate  the  homage  due 
to  this  distinguished  man  with  some  visible  memento  can- 


THE  PENNSYLVANIA    PILGRIM       319 

not  be  gratified.  There  is  no  reason  to  suppose  that  he 
was  interred  in  any  other  place  than  the  Friends'  old 
burying-ground  in  Germantown,  though  the  fact  is  not 
attested  by  any  definite  source  of  information.  After 
all,  this  obliteration  of  the  last  trace  of  his  earthly  ex- 
istence is  but  typical  of  what  has  overtaken  the  times 
which  he  represents ;  that  Germantown  which  he 
founded,  which  saw  him  live  and  move,  is  at  present  but 
a  quaint  idyl  of  the  past,  almost  a  myth,  barely  remem- 
bered and  little  cared  for  by  the  keener  race  that  has 
succeeded." 

The  Pilgrims  of  Plymouth  have  not  lacked  historian 
and  poet.  Justice  has  been  done  to  their  faith^courage, 
and  self-sacrifice,  and  to  the  mighty  influence  of  their 
endeavors  to  establish  righteousness  on  the  earth.  The 
Quaker  pilgrims  of  Pennsylvania,  seeking  the  same  ob- 
ject by  different  means,  have  not  been  equally  fortunate. 
The  power  of  their  testimony  for  truth  and  holiness, 
peace  and  freedom,  enforced  only  by  what  Milton  calls 
"  the  unresistible  might  of  meekness,"  has  been  felt 
through  two  centuries  in  the  amelioration  of  penal  sever- 
ities, the  abolition  of  slavery,  the  reform  of  the  erring, 
the  relief  of  the  poor  and  suffering,  —  felt,  in  brief,  in 
every  step  of  human  progress.  But  of  the  men  them- 
selves, with  the  single  exception  of  William  Penn, 
scarcely  anything  is  known.  Contrasted,  from  the  out- 
set, with  the  stern,  aggressive  Puritans  of  New  England, 
they  have  come  to  be  regarded  as  "  a  feeble  folk,"  with 
a  personality  as  doubtful  as  their  unrecorded  graves. 
They  were  not  soldiers,  like  Miles  Standish ;  they  had  no 
figure  so  picturesque  as  Vane,  no  leader  so  rashly  brave 
and  haughty  as  Endicott.  No  Cotton  Mather  wrote 
their  Magnalia  ;  they  had  no  awful  drama  of  supernat- 
uralism  in  which  Satan  and  his  angels  were  actors ; 
and  the  only  witch  mentioned  in  their  simple  annals 
was  a  poor  old  Swedish  woman,  who,  on  complaint  of 


320    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

her  countrywomen,  was  tried  and  acquitted  of  every- 
thing but  imbecility  and  folly.  Nothing  but  common- 
place offices  of  civility  came  to  pass  between  them  and 
the  Indians ;  indeed,  their  enemies  taunted  them  with 
the  fact  that  the  savages  did  not  regard  them  as  Chris- 
tians, but  just  such  men  as  themselves.  Yet  it  must  be 
apparent  to  every  careful  observer  of  the  progress  of 
American  civilization  that  its  two  principal  currents  had 
their  sources  in  the  entirely  opposite  directions  of  the 
Puritan  and  Quaker  colonies.  To  use  the  words  of  a 
late  writer  : l  "  The  historical  forces,  with  which  no  oth- 
ers may  be  compared  in  their  influence  on  the  people, 
have  been  those  of  the  Puritan  and  the  Quaker.  The 
strength  of  the  one  was  in  the  confession  of  an  invisible 
Presence,  a  righteous,  eternal  Will,  which  would  estab- 
lish righteousness  on  earth  ;  and  thence  arose  the  convic- 
tion of  a  direct  personal  responsibility,  which  could  be 
tempted  by  no  external  splendor  and  could  be  shaken  by 
no  internal  agitation,  and  could  not  be  evaded  or  trans- 
ferred. The  strength  of  the  other  was  the  witness  in 
the  human  spirit  to  an  eternal  Word,  an  Inner  Voice 
which  spoke  to  each  alone,  while  yet  it  spoke  to  every 
man  ;  a  Light  which  each  was  to  follow,  and  which  yet 
was  the  light  of  the  world  ;  and  all  other  voices  were 
silent  before  this,  and  the  solitary  path  whither  it  led 
was  more  sacred  than  the  worn  ways  of  cathedral-aisles." 
It  will  be  sufficiently  apparent  to  the  reader  that,  in 
the  poem  which  follows,  I  have  attempted  nothing  be- 
yond a  study  of  the  life  and  times  of  the  Pennsylvania 
colonist,  —  a  simple  picture  of  a  noteworthy  man  and 
his  locality.  The  colors  of  my  sketch  are  all  very  sober, 
toned  down  to  the  quiet  and  dreamy  atmosphere  through 
which  its  subject  is  visible.  Whether,  in  the  glare  and 
tumult  of  the  present  time,  such  a  picture  will  find  favor 
may  well  be  questioned.  I  only  know  that  it  has  be- 
1  Mulford's  Nation,  pp.  267,  268. 


THE  PENNSYLVANIA   PILGRIM        321 

guiled  for  me  some  hours  of  weariness,  and  that,  what- 
ever may  be  its  measure  of  public  appreciation,  it  has 
been  to  me  its  own  reward. 

J.  G.  W. 

AMESBUKY,  5th  mo..  1872. 


HAIL  to  posterity ! 
Hail,  future  men  of  Germanopolis  ! 

Let  the  young  generations  yet  to  be 
Look  kindly  upon  this. 

Think  how  your  fathers  left  their  native  land,  — 
Dear  German -land!     O  sacred  hearths  and 

homes !  — 
And,  where  the  wild  beast  roams, 

In  patience  planned 
New  forest-homes  beyond  the  mighty  sea, 

There  undisturbed  and  free 
To  live  as  brothers  of  one  family. 
What  pains  and  cares  befell, 

What  trials  and  what  fears, 
Remember,  and  wherein  we  have  done  well 
Follow  our  footsteps,  men  of  coming  years ! 
Where  we  have  failed  to  do 

Aright,  or  wisely  live, 
Be  warned  by  us,  the  better  way  pursue, 
And,  knowing  we  were  human,  even  as  you, 

Pity  us  and  forgive ! 
Farewell,  Posterity ! 
Farewell,  dear  Germany ! 
Forevermore  farewell ! 

From  the  Latin  of  FRANCIS  DANIBL  PASTOBIUS  in  the    Germanlown 
Records.    1688. 

VOL.  I.  21 


322    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 


PRELUDE. 

I  SING  the  Pilgrim  of  a  softer  clime 

And  milder  speech  than  those  brave  men's  who 

brought 
To  the  ice  and  iron  of  our  winter  time 

A  will  as  firm,  a  creed  as  stern,  and  wrought 

With  one  mailed  hand,  and  with  the  other  fought. 
Simply,  as  fits  my  theme,  in  homely  rhyme 

I  sing  the  blue-eyed  German  Spener  taught, 
Through  whose   veiled,    mystic   faith  the  Inward 
Light, 

Steady  and  still,  an  easy  brightness,  shone, 
Transfiguring  all  things  in  its  radiance  white. 
The  garland  which  his  meekness  never  sought 

I  bring  him  ;  over  fields  of  harvest  sown 

With  seeds  of  blessing,  now  to  ripeness  grown, 
I  bid  the  sower  pass  before  the  reapers'  sight. 


Never  in  tenderer  quiet  lapsed  the  day 
From  Pennsylvania's  vales  of  spring  away, 
Where,  forest-walled,  the  scattered  hamlets  lay 

Along  the  wedded  rivers.     One  long  bar 
Of  purple  cloud,  on  which  the  evening  star 
Shone  like  a  jewel  on  a  scimitar, 

Held  the  sky's  golden  gateway.    Through  the  deep 
Hush  of  the  woods  a  murmur  seemed  to  creep, 
The  Schuylkill  whispering  in  a  voice  of  sleep. 


THE  PENNSYLVANIA   PILGRIM        323 

All  else  was  still.  The  oxen  from  their  ploughs 
Rested  at  last,  and  from  their  long  day's  browse 
Came  the  dun  files  of  Krisheim's  home -bound 


And  the  young  city,  round  whose  virgin  zone 
The  rivers  like  two  mighty  arms  were  thrown, 
Marked  by  the  smoke  of  evening  fires  alone, 

Lay  in  the  distance,  lovely  even  then 
With  its  fair  women  and  its  stately  men 
Gracing  the  forest  court  of  William  Penn, 

Urban  yet  sylvan  ;  in  its  rough-hewn  frames 
Of  oak  and  pine  the  dryads  held  their  claims, 
And  lent  its  streets  their  pleasant  woodland  names. 

Anna  Pastorius  down  the  leafy  lane 

Looked  city-ward,  then  stooped  to  prune  again 

Her  vines  and  simples,  with  a  sigh  of  pain. 

For  fast  the  streaks  of  ruddy  sunset  paled 
In  the  oak  clearing,  and,  as  daylight  failed, 
Slow,  overhead,  the  dusky  night-birds  sailed. 

Again  she  looked  :  between  green  walls  of  shade, 
With  low-bent  head  as  if  with  sorrow  weighed, 
Daniel  Pastorius  slowly  came  and  said, 

"  God's  peace  be  with  thee,  Anna !  "     Then  he 

stood 

Silent  before  her,  wrestling  with  the  mood 
Of  one  who  sees  the  evil  and  not  good. 


324    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

"  What  is  it,  my  Pastorius  ?  "     As  she  spoke, 
A  slow,  faint  smile  across  his  features  broke, 
Sadder  than  tears.     "  Dear  heart,"  he   said,  "  our 
folk 

"Are  even  as  others.     Yea,  our  goodliest  Friends 
Are  frail ;  our  elders  have  their  selfish  ends, 
And  few  dare  trust  the  Lord  to  make  amends 

"  For  duty's  loss.     So  even  our  feeble  word 
For  the  dumb  slaves  the  startled  meeting  heard 
As  if  a  stone  its  quiet  waters  stirred ; 

"  And,  as  the  clerk  ceased  reading,  there  began 
A  ripple  of  dissent  which  downward  ran 
In  widening  circles,  as  from  man  to  man. 

"  Somewhat  was  said  of  running  before  sent, 
Of  tender  fear  that  some  their  guide  outwent, 
Troublers  of  Israel.     I  was  scarce  intent 

"  On  hearing,  for  behind  the  reverend  row 
Of  gallery  Friends,  in  dumb  and  piteous  show, 
I  saw,  methought,  dark  faces  full  of  woe. 

"  And,  in  the  spirit,  I  was  taken  where 
They  toiled  and  suffered ;  I  was  made  aware 
Of  shame  and  wrath  and  anguish  and  despair  ! 

"  And  while  the  meeting  smothered  our  poor  plea 
With    cautious    phrase,    a   Voice    there    seemed 

to  be, 
'  As  ye  have  done  to  these  ye  do  to  me ! ' 


THE  PENNSYLVANIA   PILGRIM        325 

"  So  it  all  passed  ;  and  the  old  tithe  went  on 
Of  anise,  mint,  and  cumin,  till  the  sun 
Set,  leaving  still  the  weightier  work  undone. 

"  Help,  for  the  good  man  faileth !     Who  is  strong, 
If  these  be  weak  ?     Who  shall  rebuke  the  wrong, 
If   these   consent  ?      How   long,    O    Lord !    how 
long !  " 

He  ceased  ;  and,  bound  in  spirit  with  the  bound, 
With   folded   arms,   and   eyes    that    sought    the 

ground, 
Walked  musingly  his  little  garden  round. 

About  him,  beaded  with  the  falling  dew, 

Rare  plants  of  power  and  herbs  of  healing  grew, 

Such  as  Van  Helmont  and  Agrippa  knew. 

For,  by  the  lore  of  Gorlitz'  gentle  sage, 
With  the  mild  mystics  of  his  dreamy  age 
He  read  the  herbal  signs  of  nature's  page, 

As  once  he  heard  in  sweet  Von  Merlau's 12  bowers 
Fair  as  herself,  in  boyhood's  happy  hours, 
The  pious  Spener  read  his  creed  in  flowers. 

"  The  dear  Lord  give  us  patience  !  "  said  his  wife, 

Touching  with  finger-tip  an  aloe,  rife 

With  leaves  sharp-pointed  like  an  Aztec  knife 

Or  Carib  spear,  a  gift  to  William  Penn 
From  the  rare  gardens  of  John  Evelyn, 
Brought  from  the  Spanish  Main  by  merchantmen. 


326    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

"  See  this  strange  plant  its  steady  purpose  hold, 
And,  year  by  year,  its  patient  leaves  unfold, 
Till  the  young  eyes  that  watched  it  first  are  old. 

"  But   some  time,  thou  hast  told   me,  there  shall 

come 

A  sudden  beauty,  brightness,  and  perfume, 
The  century-moulded  bud  shall  burst  in  bloom. 

"  So  may  the  seed  which  hath  been  sown  to-day 
Grow  with  the  years,  and,  after  long  delay, 
Break  into  bloom,  and  God's  eternal  Yea 

"  Answer  at  last  the  patient  prayers  of  them 
Who  now,  by  faith  alone,  behold  its  stem 
Crowned  with  the  flowers  of  Freedom's  diadem. 

"  Meanwhile,  to  feel  and  suffer,  work  and  wait, 
Remains  for  us.     The  wrong  indeed  is  great, 
But  love  and  patience  conquer  soon  or  late." 

"  Well  hast  thou  said,  my  Anna  !  "     Tenderer 
Than  youth's  caress  upon  the  head  of  her 
Pastorius  laid  his  hand.     "  Shall  we  demur 

"  Because  the  vision  tarrieth  ?     In  an  hour 

We  dream  not  of,  the  slow-grown  bud  may  flower, 

And  what  was  sown  in  weakness  rise  in  power  !  " 

Then  through  the  vine-draped  door  whose  legend 

read, 

"  Procul  este  profani ! "  Anna  led 
To  where  their  child  upon  his  little  bed 


THE  PENNSYLVANIA   PILGRIM        327 

Looked   up   and  smiled.     "  Dear  heart,"  she  said, 

"  if  we 

Must  bearers  of  a  heavy  burden  be, 
Our  boy,  God  willing,  yet  the  day  shall  see 

"  When  from  the  gallery  to  the  farthest  seat, 
Slave  and  slave-owner  shall  no  longer  meet, 
But  all  sit  equal  at  the  Master's  feet." 

On  the  stone  hearth  the  blazing  walnut  block 
Set  the  low  walls  a-glimmer,  showed  the  cock 
Kebuking  Peter  on  the  Van  Wyck  clock, 

Shone  on  old  tomes  of  law  and  physic,  side 
By  side  with  Fox  and  Behmen,  played  at  hide 
And  seek  with  Anna,  midst  her  household  pride 

Of  flaxen  webs,  and  on  the  table,  bare 
Of  costly  cloth  or  silver  cup,  but  where, 
Tasting  the  fat  shads  of  the  Delaware, 

The    courtly   Penn   had   praised    the    goodwife's 

cheer, 

And  quoted  Horace  o'er  her  home-brewed  beer, 
Till  even  grave  Pastorius  smiled  to  hear. 

In  such  a  home,  beside  the  Schuylkill's  wave, 
He  dwelt  in  peace  with  God  and  man,  and  gave 
Food  to  the  poor  and  shelter  to  the  slave. 

For  all  too  soon  the  New  World's  scandal  shamed 
The  righteous  code  by  Penn  and  Sidney  framed, 
And  men  withheld  the  human  rights  they  claimed. 


328    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

And  slowly  wealth  and  station  sanction  lent, 
And  hardened  avarice,  on  its  gains  intent, 
Stifled  the  inward  whisper  of  dissent. 

Yet  all  the  while  the  burden  rested  sore 
On  tender  hearts.     At  last  Pastorius  bore 
Their  warning  message  to  the  Church's  door 

In  God's  name ;  and  the  leaven  of  the  word 
Wrought  ever  after  in  the  souls  who  heard, 
And  a  dead   conscience   in  its   grave-clothes 
stirred 

To  troubled  life,  and  urged  the  vain  excuse 
Of  Hebrew  custom,  patriarchal  use, 
Good  in  itself  if  evil  in  abuse. 

Gravely  Pastorius  listened,  not  the  less 
Discerning  through  the  decent  fig-leaf  dress 
Of  the  poor  plea  its  shame  of  selfishness. 

One  Scripture  rule,  at  least,  was  unforgot ; 
He  hid  the  outcast,  and  bewrayed  him  not ; 
And,  when  his  prey  the  human  hunter  sought, 

He  scrupled  not,  while  Anna's  wise  delay 

And  proffered  cheer  prolonged  the  master's  stay, 

To  speed  the  black  guest  safely  on  his  way. 

Yet,  who  shall  guess  his  bitter  grief  who  lends 
His   life   to   some   great   cause,   and   finds   his 

friends 
Shame  or  betray  it  for  their  private  ends  ? 


THE  PENNSYLVANIA  PILGRIM        329 

How  felt  the  Master  when  his  chosen  strove 
In  childish  folly  for  their  seats  above ; 
And  that  fond  mother,  blinded  by  her  love, 

Besought  him  that  her  sons,  beside  his  throne, 
Might  sit  on  either  hand  ?     Amidst  his  own 
A  stranger  oft,  companionless  and  lone, 

God's  priest  and  prophet  stands.     The  martyr's 

pain 

Is  not  alone  from  scourge  and  cell  and  chain ; 
Sharper  the  pang  when,  shouting  in  his  train, 

His  weak  disciples  by  their  lives  deny 
The  loud  hosannas  of  their  daily  cry, 
And  make  their  echo  of  his  truth  a  lie. 

His  forest  home  no  hermit's  cell  he  found, 
Guests,  motley-minded,  drew  his  hearth  around, 
And  held  armed  truce  upon  its  neutral  ground. 

There  Indian  chiefs  with  battle-bows  unstrung, 
Strong,    hero-limbed,    like    those   whom    Homer 

sung, 
Pastorius  fancied,  when  the  world  was  young, 

Came  with  their  tawny  women,  lithe  and  tall, 
Like  bronzes  in  his  friend  Von  Rodeck's  hall, 
Comely,  if  black,  and  not  unpleasing  all. 

There  hungry  folk  in  homespun  drab  and  gray 
Drew  round  his  board  on  Monthly  Meeting  day, 
Genial,  half  merry  in  their  friendly  way. 


330    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

Or,  haply,  pilgrims  from  the  Fatherland, 
Weak,  timid,  homesick,  slow  to  understand 
The    New  World's   promise,   sought  his   helping 
hand. 

Or  painful  Kelpius 13  from  his  hermit  den 
By  Wissahickon,  maddest  of  good  men, 
Dreamed  o'er  the  Chiliast  dreams  of  Petersen. 

Deep  in  the  woods,  where  the  small  river  slid 
Snake-like  in  shade,  the  Helmstadt  Mystic  hid, 
Weird  as  a  wizard,  over  arts  forbid, 

Reading  the  books  of  Daniel  and  of  John, 

And    Behmen's    Morning-Redness,    through     the 

Stone 
Of  Wisdom,  vouchsafed  to  his  eyes  alone, 

Whereby  he  read  what  man  ne'er  read  before, 
And  saw  the  visions  man  shall  see  no  more, 
Till  the  great  angel,  striding  sea  and  shore, 

Shall  bid  all  flesh  await,  on  land  or  ships, 
The  warning  trump  of  the  Apocalypse, 
Shattering  the  heavens  before  the  dread  eclipse. 

Or  meek-eyed  Mennonist  his  bearded  chin 
Leaned  o'er  the  gate  ;  or  Ranter,  pure  within, 
Aired  his  perfection  in  a  world  of  sin. 

Or,  talking  of  old  home  scenes,  Op  der  Graaf 
Teased  the  low  back-log  with  his  shodden  staff, 
Till  the  red  embers  broke  into  a  laugh 


THE  PENNSYLVANIA   PILGRIM        331 

And    dance    of    flame,    as    if    they    fain    would 

cheer 

The  rugged  face,  half  tender,  half  austere, 
Touched  with  the  pathos  of  a  homesick  tear ! 

Or  Sluyter,14  saintly  familist,  whose  word 
As  law  the  Brethren  of  the  Manor  heard, 
Announced  the  speedy  terrors  of  the  Lord, 

And  turned,  like  Lot  at  Sodom,  from  his  race, 
Above  a  wrecked  world  with  complacent  face 
Eiding  secure  upon  his  plank  of  grace  ! 

Haply,  from  Finland's  birchen  groves  exiled, 
Manly  in  thought,  in  simple  ways  a  child, 
His  white  hair  floating  round  his  visage  mild, 

The  Swedish  pastor  sought  the  Quaker's  door, 
Pleased   from   his   neighbor's   lips   to    hear   once 

more 
His  long-disused  and  half -forgotten  lore. 

For  both  could  baffle  Babel's  lingual  curse, 
And  speak  in  Bion's  Doric,  and  rehearse 
Cleanthes'  hymn  or  Virgil's  sounding  verse. 

And  oft  Pastorius  and  the  meek  old  man 
Argued  as  Quaker  and  as  Lutheran, 
Ending  in  Christian  love,  as  they  began. 

With  lettered  Lloyd  on  pleasant  morns  he  strayed 
Where  Sommerhausen  over  vales  of  shade 
Looked  miles  away,  by  every  flower  delayed, 


332    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

Or  song  of  bird,  happy  and  free  with  one 
Who  loved,  like  him,  to  let  his  memory  run 
Over  old  fields  of  learning,  and  to  sun 

Himself  in  Plato's  wise  philosophies, 
And  dream  with  Philo  over  mysteries 
Whereof  the  dreamer  never  finds  the  keys  ; 

To    touch    all    themes   of    thought,   nor   weakly 

stop 

For  doubt  of  truth,  but  let  the  buckets  drop 
Deep  down  and  bring  the  hidden  waters  up.15 

For  there  was  freedom  in  that  wakening  time 
Of  tender  souls  ;  to  differ  was  not  crime  ; 
The  varying  bells  made  up  the  perfect  chime. 

On  lips  unlike  was  laid  the  altar's  coal, 
The  white,  clear  light,  tradition-colored,  stole 
Through  the  stained  oriel  of  each  human  soul. 

Gathered  from  many  sects,  the  Quaker  brought 
His  old  beliefs,  adjusting  to  the  thought 
That     moved     his     soul    the    creed    his    fathers 
taught. 

One  faith  alone,  so  broad  that  all  mankind 
Within  themselves  its  secret  witness  find, 
The  soul's  communion  with  the  Eternal  Mind, 

The  Spirit's  law,  the  Inward  Rule  and  Guide, 
Scholar  and  peasant,  lord  and  serf,  allied, 
The  polished  Penn  and  Cromwell's  Ironside. 


THE  PENNSYLVANIA   PILGRIM         333 

As  still  in  Hemskerck's  Quaker  Meeting,16  face 

By  face  in  Flemish  detail,  we  may  trace 

How  loose-mouthed  boor  and  fine  ancestral  grace 

Sat  in  close  contrast,  —  the  clipt-headed  churl, 
Broad  market- dame,  and  simple  serving-girl 
By  skirt  of  silk  and  periwig  in  curl ! 

For   soul   touched   soul;     the   spiritual    treasure- 
trove 

Made  all  men  equal,  none  could  rise  above 
Nor  sink  below  that  level  of  God's  love. 

So,  with  his  rustic  neighbors  sitting  down, 
The  homespun  frock  beside  the  scholar's  gown, 
Pastorius  to  the  manners  of  the  town 

Added  the  freedom  of  the  woods,  and  sought 
The  bookless  wisdom  by  experience  taught, 
And  learned  to  love  his  new-found  home,  while 
not 

Forgetful  of  the  old  ;  the  seasons  went 
Their  rounds,  and  somewhat  to  his  spirit  lent 
Of  their  own  calm  and  measureless  content. 

Glad  even  to  tears,  he  heard  the  robin  sing 
His  song  of  welcome  to  the  Western  spring, 
And  bluebird  borrowing  from  the  sky  his  wing. 

And  when  the  miracle  of  autumn  came, 
And  all  the  woods  with  many-colored  flame 
Of  splendor,  making  summer's  greenness  tame, 


334    NARRATIVE   AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

Burned,  unconsumed,  a  voice  without  a  sound 
Spake  to  him  from  each  kindled  bush  around, 
And    made   the    strange,  new    landscape    holy 
ground ! 

And  when  the  bitter  north-wind,  keen  and  swift. 
Swept  the  white  street  and  piled  the  dooryard 

drift, 
He  exercised,  as  Friends  might  say,  his  gift 

Of  verse,  Dutch,  English,  Latin,  like  the  hash 

Of  corn  and  beans  in  Indian  succotash ; 

Dull,  doubtless,  but  with  here  and  there  a  flash 

Of  wit  and  fine  conceit,  —  the  good  man's  play 
Of  quiet  fancies,  meet  to  while  away 
The  slow  hours  measuring  off  an  idle  day. 

At  evening,  while  his  wife  put  on  her  look 
Of  love's  endurance,  from  its  niche  he  took 
The  written  pages  of  his  ponderous  book. 

And  read,  in  half  the  languages  of  man, 
His  "  Rusca  Apium,"  which  with  bees  began, 
And  through  the  gamut  of  creation  ran. 

Or,  now  and  then,  the  missive  of  some  friend 
In  gray  Altorf  or  storied  Niirnberg  penned 
Dropped  in  upon  him  like  a  guest  to  spend 

The  night  beneath  his  roof-tree.     Mystical 
The  fair  Von  Merlau  spake  as  waters  fall 
And  voices  sound  in  dreams,  and  yet  withal 


THE  PENNSYLVANIA  PILGRIM        335 

Human  and  sweet,  as  if  each  far,  low  tone, 

Over  the  roses  of  her  gardens  blown 

Brought  the  warm  sense  of  beauty  all  her  own. 

Wise  Spener  questioned  what  his  friend  could  trace 
Of  spiritual  influx  or  of  saving  grace 
In  the  wild  natures  of  the  Indian  race. 

And  learned  Schurmberg,  fain,  at  times,  to  look* 
From  Talmud,  Koran,  Veds,  and  Pentateuch, 
Sought  out  his  pupil  in  his  far-off  nook, 

To  query  with  him  of  climatic  change, 

Of  bird,  beast,  reptile,  in  his  forest  range, 

Of  flowers  and  fruits  and  simples  new  and  strange. 

And  thus  the  Old  and  New  World  reached  their 

hands 

Across  the  water,  and  the  friendly  lands 
Talked  with  each  other  from  their  severed  strands. 

Pastorius  answered  all :  while  seed  and  root 
Sent  from  his   new  home    grew  to.  flower   and 

fruit 
Along  the  Rhine  and  at  the  Spessart's  foot ; 

And,  in  return,  the  flowers  his  boyhood  knew 
Smiled  at  his  door,  the  same  in  form  and  hue, 
And  on  his  vines  the  Rhenish  clusters  grew. 

No  idler  he  ;  whoever  else  might  shirk, 
He  set  his  hand  to  every  honest  work,  — 
Farmer  and  teacher,  court  and  meeting  clerk. 


336    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

Still  on  the  town  seal  his  device  is  found, 
Grapes,  flax,  and  thread-spool  on  a  trefoil  ground, 
With  "  Vinum,  Linum  et  Textrinum  "  wound. 

One  house  sufficed  for  gospel  and  for  law, 
Where    Paul   and   Grotius,    Scripture    text    and 

saw, 
Assured  the  good,  and  held  the  rest  in  awe. 

Whatever  legal  maze  he  wandered  through, 
He  kept  the  Sermon  on  the  Mount  in  view, 
And  justice  always  into  mercy  grew. 

No  whipping-post  he  needed,  stocks,  nor  jail, 
Nor  ducking-stool ;  the  orchard-thief  grew  pale 
At  his  rebuke,  the  vixen  ceased  to  rail, 

The  usurer's  grasp  released  the  forfeit  land ; 
The  slanderer  faltered  at  the  witness-stand, 
And  all  men  took  his  counsel  for  command. 

Was  it  caressing  air,  the  brooding  love 

Of  tenderer  skies  than  German  land  knew  of, 

Green  calm  below,  blue  quietness  above, 

Still  flow  of  water,  deep  repose  of  wood 
That,  with  a  sense  of  loving  Fatherhood 
And  childlike  trust  in  the  Eternal  Good, 

Softened    all    hearts,    and    dulled    the    edge    of 

hate, 

Hushed  strife,  and  taught  impatient  zeal  to  wait 
The  slow  assurance  of  the  better  state  ? 


THE  PENNSYLVANIA   PILGRIM         337 

Who  knows  what  goadings  in  their  sterner  way 
O'er  jagged  ice,  relieved  by  granite  gray, 
Blew  round  the  men  of  Massachusetts  Bay  ? 

What  hate  of  heresy  the  east-wind  woke  ? 
What  hints  of  pitiless  power  and  terror  spoke 
In  waves  that  on  their  iron  coast-line  broke  ? 

Be  it  as  it  may :  within  the  Land  of  Penn 

The  sectary  yielded  to  the  citizen, 

And  peaceful  dwelt  the  many-creeded  men. 

Peace  brooded  over  all.     No  trumpet  stung 
The  air  to  madness,  and  no  steeple  flung 
Alarums  down  from  bells  at  midnight  rung. 

The  land  slept  well.     The  Indian  from  his  face 
Washed  all  his  war-paint  off,  and  in  the  place 
Of  battle-marches  sped  the  peaceful  chase, 

Or  wrought  for  wages  at  the  white  man's  side,  — 
Giving  to  kindness  what  his  native  pride 
And  lazy  freedom  to  all  else  denied. 

And  well  the  curious  scholar  loved  the  old 
Traditions  that  his  swarthy  neighbors  told 
By  wigwam-fires  when  nights  were  growing  cold, 

Discerned    the    fact     round    which    their    fancy 

drew 
Its  dreams,  and   held   their  childish   faith   more 

true 
To  God  and  man  than  half  the  creeds  he  knew.17 


338  NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

The   desert    blossomed    round    him ;  wheat-fields 

roUed 

Beneath  the  warm  wind  waves  of  green  and  gold  ; 
The  planted  ear  returned  its  hundred-fold. 

Great  clusters  ripened  in  a  warmer  sun 

Than  that  which  by  the  Rhine  stream  shines  upon 

The  purpling  hillsides  with  low  vines  o'errun. 

About  each  rustic  porch  the  humming-bird 
Tried  with  light  bill,  that  scarce  a  petal  stirred, 
The  Old  World  flowers  to  virgin  soil  transferred ; 

And  the  first-fruits  of  pear  and  apple,  bending 
The  young  boughs  down,  their  gold  and  russet 

blending, 
Made  glad  his  heart,  familiar  odors  lending 

To  the  fresh  fragrance  of  the  birch  and  pine, 

Life-everlasting,  bay,  and  eglantine, 

And  all  the  subtle  scents  the  woods  combine. 

Fair  First-Day  mornings,  steeped  in  summer  calm, 
Warm,  tender,  restful,  sweet  with  woodland  balm, 
Came  to  him,  like  some  mother-hallowed  psalm 

To  the  tired  grinder  at  the  noisy  wheel 
Of  labor,  winding  off  from  memory's  reel 
A  golden  thread  of  music.     With  no  peal 

Of  bells  to  call  them  to  the  house  of  praise, 
The  scattered  settlers  through  green  forest-ways 
Walked  meeting-ward.     In  reverent  amaze 


THE  PENNSYLVANIA   PILGRIM        339 

The  Indian  trapper  saw  them,  from  the  dim 

Shade  of  the  alders  on  the  rivulet's  rim, 

Seek  the  Great  Spirit's  house  to  talk  with  Him. 

There,  through  the  gathered  stillness  multiplied 
And  made  intense  by  sympathy,  outside 
The  sparrows  sang,  and  the  gold-robin  cried, 

A-swing  upon  his  elm.     A  faint  perfume 
Breathed     through    the    open    windows    of     the 

room 
From  locust-trees,  heavy  with  clustered  bloom. 

Thither,  perchance,  sore-tried  confessors  came, 
Whose  fervor  jail  nor  pillory  could  tame, 
Proud   of   the   cropped   ears   meant    to   be   their 
shame, 

Men  who  had  eaten  slavery's  bitter  bread 
In  Indian  isles  ;  pale  women  who  had  bled 
Under  the  hangman's  lash,  and  bravely  said 

God's  message  through  their  prison's  iron  bars ; 
And  gray  old  soldier-converts,  seamed  with  scars 
From  every  stricken  field  of  England's  wars. 

Lowly  before  the  Unseen  Presence  knelt 
Each  waiting  heart,  till  haply  some  one  felt 
On  his  moved  lips  the  seal  of  silence  melt. 

Or,  without  spoken  words,  low  breathings  stole 
Of  a  diviner  life  from  soul  to  soul, 
Baptizing  in  one  tender  thought  the  whole. 


340    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

When  shaken  hands  announced  the  meeting  o'er, 
The  friendly  group  still  lingered  at  the  door, 
Greeting,  inquiring,  sharing  all  the  store 

Of  weekly  tidings.     Meanwhile  youth  and  inaid 
Down  the  green  vistas  of  the  woodland  strayed, 
Whispered   and   smiled    and   oft    their   feet    de- 
layed. 

Did  the  boy's  whistle  answer  back  the  thrushes  ? 
Did  light  girl  laughter  ripple  through  the  bushes, 
As  brooks  make  merry  over  roots  and  rushes  ? 

Uu vexed   the   sweet  air   seemed.      Without  a 

wound 

The  ear  of  silence  heard,  and  every  sound 
Its  place  in  nature's  fine  accordance  found. 

And  solemn  meeting,  summer  sky  and  wood, 
Old  kindly  faces,  youth  and  maidenhood 
Seemed,  like  God's  new  creation,  very  good ! 

And,  greeting  all  with  quiet  smile  and  word, 
Pastorius  went  his  way.  The  unscared  bird 
Sang  at  his  side  ;  scarcely  the  squirrel  stirred 

At  his  hushed  footstep  on  the  mossy  sod ; 
And,  wheresoe'er  the  good  man  looked  or  trod, 
He  felt  the  peace  of  nature  and  of  God. 

His  social  life  wore  no  ascetic  form, 

He  loved  all  beauty,  without  fear  of  harm, 

And  in  his  veins  his  Teuton  blood  ran  warm. 


THE  PENNSYLVANIA   PILGRIM        341 

Strict  to  himself,  of  other  men  no  spy, 
He  made  his  own  no  circuit-judge  to  try 
The  freer  conscience  of  his  neighbors  by. 

With  love  rebuking,  by  his  life  alone, 
Gracious  and  sweet,  the  better  way  was  shown, 
The  joy  of  one,  who,  seeking  not  his  own, 

And  faithful  to  all  scruples,  finds  at  last 
The  thorns  and  shards  of  duty  overpast, 
And  daily  life,  beyond  his  hope's  forecast, 

Pleasant  and  beautiful  with  sight  and  sound, 
And  flowers  upspringing  in  its  narrow  round, 
And  all  his  days  with  quiet  gladness  crowned. 

He  sang  not ;  but,  if  sometimes  tempted  strong, 
He  hummed  what  seemed  like  Altorf's  Burschen- 

song; 
His  good  wife  smiled,  and  did  not  count  it  wrong. 

For  well  he  loved  his  boyhood's  brother  band ; 
His   Memory,  while   he  trod    the  New  World's 

strand, 
A  double-ganger  walked  the  Fatherland ! 

If,  when  on  frosty  Christmas  eves  the  light 
Shone  on  his  quiet  hearth,  he  missed  the  sight 
Of  Yule-log,  Tree,  and  Christ-child  all  in  white ; 

And  closed  his  eyes,  and  listened  to  the  sweet 
Old  wait-songs  sounding  down  his  native  street, 
And  watched  again  the  dancers'  mingling  feet ; 


342    NA  RRA  TI VE  A  ND  LE  GEN  DA  RY  P  OEMS 

Yet  not  the  less,  when  once  the  vision  passed, 

He  held  the  plain  and  sober  maxims  fast 

Of  the  dear  Friends  with  whom  his  lot  was  cast. 

Still  all  attuned  to  nature's  melodies, 

He  loved  the  bird's  song  in  his  dooryard  trees, 

And  the  low  hum  of  home-returning  bees ; 

The  blossomed  flax,  the  tulip-trees  in  bloom 
Down  the  long  street,  the  beauty  and  perfume 
Of  apple-boughs,  the  mingling  light  and  gloom 

Of  Sommerhausen's  woodlands,  woven  through 
With   sun  -  threads ;     and    the    music    the   wind 

drew, 
Mournful  and  sweet,  from  leaves  it  overblew. 

And  evermore,  beneath  this  outward  sense, 
And  through  the  common  sequence  of  events, 
He  felt  the  guiding  hand  of  Providence 

Reach  out  of  space.     A  Voice  spake  in  his  ear, 
And  lo  !  all  other  voices  far  and  near 
Died  at  that  whisper,  full  of  meanings  clear. 

The  Light   of   Life   shone   round  him;   one  by 

one 

The  wandering  lights,  that  all-misleading  run, 
Went  out  like  candles  paling  in  the  sun. 

That  Light  he  followed,  step  by  step,  where'er 

It  led,  as  in  the  vision  of  the  seer 

The  wheels  moved  as  the  spirit  in  the  clear 


THE  PENNSYLVANIA   PILGRIM        343 

And  terrible  crystal  moved,  with  all  their  eyes 
Watching  the  living  splendor  sink  or  rise, 
Its  will  their  will,  knowing  no  otherwise. 

Within  himself  he  found  the  law  of  right, 
He  walked  by  faith  and  not  the  letter's  sight, 
And  read  his  Bible  by  the  Inward  Light. 

And  if  sometimes  the  slaves  of  form  and  rule, 
Frozen  in  their  creeds  like  fish  in  winter's  pool, 
Tried  the  large  tolerance  of  his  liberal  school, 

His  door  was  free  to  men  of  every  name, 
He  welcomed  all  the  seeking  souls  who  came, 
And  no  man's  faith  he  made  a  cause  of  blame. 

But  best  he  loved  in  leisure  hours  to  see 

His  own  dear  Friends  sit  by  him  knee  to  knee, 

In  social  converse,  genial,  frank,  and  free. 

There  sometimes  silence  (it  were  hard  to  tell 
Who  owned  it  first)  upon  the  circle  fell, 
Hushed  Anna's  busy  wheel,  and  laid  its  spell 

On  the  black  boy  who  grimaced  by  the  hearth, 
To  solemnize  his  shining  face  of  mirth  ; 
Only  the  old  clock  ticked  amidst  the  dearth 

Of  sound  ;  nor  eye  was  raised  nor  hand  was 

stirred 

In  that  soul-sabbath,  till  at  last  some  word 
Of  tender  counsel  or  low  prayer  was  heard. 


344    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

Then  guests,  who  lingered  but  farewell  to  say 
And  take  love's   message,  went   their  homeward 

way; 
So  passed  in  peace  the  guileless  Quaker's  day. 

His  was  the  Christian's  unsung  Age  of  Gold, 
A  truer  idyl  than  the  bards  have  told 
Of  Arno's  banks  or  Arcady  of  old. 

Where  still  the  Friends  their  place  of  burial  keep, 
And  century-rooted  mosses  o'er  it  creep, 
The  Niirnberg  scholar  and  his  helpmeet  sleep. 

And  Anna's  aloe  ?     If  it  flowered  at  last 

In  Bartram's  garden,  did  John  Woolman  cast 

A  glance  upon  it  as  he  meekly  passed  ? 

And  did  a  secret  sympathy  possess 
That  tender  soul,  and  for  the  slave's  redress 
Lend  hope,  strength,  patience?     It  were  vain  to 
guess. 

Nay,  were  the  plant  itself  but  mythical, 

Set  in  the  fresco  of  tradition's  wall 

Like  Jotham's  bramble,  mattereth  not  at  all. 

Enough  to  know  that,  through  the  winter's  frost 
And  summer's  heat,  no  seed  of  truth  is  lost, 
And  every  duty  pays  at  last  its  cost. 

For,  ere  Pastorius  left  the  sun  and  air, 
God  sent  the  answer  to  his  life-long  prayer ; 
The  child  was  born  beside  the  Delaware, 


KING    VOLMER   AND  ELSIE  345 

Who,  in  the  power  a  holy  purpose  lends, 

Guided  his  people  unto  nobler  ends, 

And  left  them  worthier  of  the  name  of  Friends. 

And  lo !    the  fulness  of  the  time  has  come, 
And  over  all  the  exile's  Western  home, 
From  sea  to  sea  the  flowers  of  freedom  bloom ! 

And  joy-bells  ring,  and  silver  trumpets  blow ; 

But  not  for  thee,  Pastorius!     Even  so 

The  world  forgets,  but  the  wise  angels  know. 


KING  VOLMER  AND  ELSIE. 

AFTER   THE   DANISH   OF   CHRISTIAN   WINTER. 

WHERE,  over  heathen  doom-rings  and  gray  stones 

of  the  Horg, 
In  its  little  Christian  city  stands  the  church  of  Vor- 

dingborg, 
In  merry  mood  King  Volmer  sat,  forgetful  of  his 

power, 
As  idle  as  the  Goose  of  Gold  that  brooded  on  his 

tower. 

Out  spake  the  King  to  Henrik,  his  young  and  faith- 
ful squire : 

"Dar'st  trust  thy  little  Elsie,  the  maid  of  thy 
desire  ?  " 

"  Of  all  the  men  in  Denmark  she  loveth  only  me : 

As  true  to  me  is  Elsie  as  thy  Lily  is  to  thee." 


346    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

Loud  laughed  the  king  :  "  To-morrow  shall  bring 

another  day,18 
When   I  myself  will  test  her ;  she  will  not  say  me 

nay." 
Thereat  the  lords  and  gallants,  that  round  about 

him  stood, 
Wagged  all  their  heads  in  concert  and  smiled  as 

courtiers  should. 

The  gray  lark  sings  o'er  Vordingborg,  and  on  the 

ancient  town 
From  the  tall  tower  of  Valdemar  the  Golden  Goose 

looks  down ; 
The  yellow  grain  is  waving  in  the  pleasant  wind  of 

morn, 
The  wood  resounds  with  cry  of  hounds  and  blare 

of  hunter's  horn. 

In  the  garden  of  her  father  little  Elsie  sits  and 

spins, 
And,  singing  with  the  early  birds,  her  daily  task 

begins. 
Gay  tulips  bloom  and  sweet  mint  curls  around  her 

garden-bower, 
But  she  is  sweeter  than  the  mint  and  fairer  than 

the  flower. 

About  her  form  her  kirtle  blue  clings  lovingly,  and, 

white 
As  snow,  her  loose   sleeves  only  leave  her  small, 

round  wrists  in  sight ; 

Below,  the  modest  petticoat  can  only  half  conceal 
The  motion  of  the  lightest  foot  that  ever  turned  a 

wheel. 


KING    VOLMER  AND  ELSIE  347 

The  cat  sits  purring  at  her  side,  bees  hum  in  sun- 
shine warm  ; 

But,  look !  she  starts,  she  lifts  her  face,  she  shades 
it  with  her  arm. 

And,  hark  !  a  train  of  horsemen,  with  sound  of 
dog  and  horn, 

Come  leaping  o'er  the  ditches,  come  trampling 
down  the  corn ! 

Merrily  rang  the  bridle-reins,  and  scarf  and  plume 

streamed  gay, 
As   fast  beside  her  father's  gate  the  riders  held 

their  way ; 
And  one  was  brave  in  scarlet  cloak,  with  golden 

spur  on  heel, 
And,  as  he  checked  his  foaming  steed,  the  maiden 

checked  her  wheel. 

"  All  hail  among  thy  roses,  the  fairest  rose  to  me  ! 
For  weary  months  in  secret  my  heart  has  longed  for 

thee ! " 
What  noble  knight  was  this  ?     What  words  for 

modest  maiden's  ear? 
She  dropped  a  lowly  courtesy  of  bashfulness  and 

fear. 

She  lifted  up  her  spinning-wheel ;  she  fain  would 

seek  the  door, 
Trembling  in  every  limb,  her  cheek  with  blushes 

crimsoned  o'er. 
"  Nay,  fear  me  not,"  the  rider  said,  "  I  offer  heart 

and  hand, 
Bear  witness  these  good  Danish  knights  who  round 

about  me  stand. 


348    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

"  I  grant  you   time  to  think  of  this,  to  answer  as 

you  may, 

For  to-morrow,  little  Elsie,  shall  bring  another  day." 
He  spake  the  old  phrase  slyly  as,  glancing  round 

his  train, 
He  saw  his  merry   followers    seek   to   hide   their 

smiles  in  vain. 

"  The  snow  of  pearls  I  '11  scatter  in  your  curls  of 

golden  hair, 
I  '11  line  with  furs  the  velvet  of  the  kirtle  that  you 

wear; 
All  precious  gems  shall  twine  your  neck ;  and  in 

a  chariot  gay 
You  shall  ride,  my  little  Elsie,  behind  four  steeds 

of  gray. 

"  And  harps  shall  sound,  and  flutes  shall  play,  and 

brazen  lamps  shall  glow  ; 
On  marble  floors  your  feet  shall  weave  the  dances 

to  and  fro. 
At  frosty  eventide  for  us  the  blazing  hearth  shall 

shine, 
While,  at  our  ease,  we  play  at  draughts,  and  drink 

the  blood-red  wine." 

Then  Elsie  raised  her  head  and  met  her  wooer  face 

to  face ; 
A  roguish  smile  shone  in  her  eye  and  on  her  lip 

found  place. 
Back  from  her  low  white  forehead  the  curls  of 

gold  she  threw, 
And  lifted  up  her  eyes  to  his,  steady  and  clear  and 

blue. 


KING    VOLMER  AND  ELSIE  349 

"  I  am  a  lowly  peasant,  and  you  a  gallant  knight ; 
I  will  not  trust  a  love  that  soon  may  cool  and  turn 

to  slight. 
If  you  would  wed  me  henceforth  be  a  peasant,  not 

a  lord ; 
I  bid  you  hang  upon  the  wall  your  tried  and  trusty 

sword." 

"  To  please  you,  Elsie,  I  will  lay  keen  Dynadel 

away, 
And  in  its  place  will  swing  the  scythe  and  mow 

your  father's  hay." 
"  Nay,  but  your  gallant  scarlet  cloak  my  eyes  can 

never  bear ; 
A  Vadmal  coat,  so  plain  and  gray,  is  all  that  you 

must  wear." 

"  Well,  Vadmal  will  I  wear  for  you,"  the  rider 
gayly  spoke, 

"  And  on  the  Lord's  high  altar  I  '11  lay  my  scarlet 
cloak." 

"  But  mark,"  she  said,  "  no  stately  horse  my  peas- 
ant love  must  ride, 

A  yoke  of  steers  before  the  plough  is  all  that  he 
must  guide." 

The  knight  looked  down  upon  his  steed  :  "  Well, 

let  him  wander  free  : 
No  other  man  must  ride  the  horse  that  has  been 

backed  by  me. 
Henceforth  I  '11  tread  the  furrow  and  to  my  oxen 

talk, 
If  only  little  Elsie  beside  my  plough  will  walk." 


350    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

"  You  must  take  from  out  your  cellar  cask  of  wine 
and  flask  and  can  ; 

The  homely  mead  I  brew  you  may  serve  a  peasant- 
man." 

"  Most  willingly,  fair  Elsie,  I  '11  drink  that  mead 
of  thine, 

And  leave  my  minstrel's  thirsty  throat  to  drain 
my  generous  wine." 

"  Now  break  your  shield  asunder,  and  shatter  sign 
and  boss, 

Unmeet  for  peasant-wedded  arms,  your  knightly 
knee  across. 

And  pull  me  down  your  castle  from  top  to  base- 
ment wall, 

And  let  your  plough  trace  furrows  in  the  ruins  of 
your  hall !  " 

Then  smiled  he  with  a  lofty  pride ;  right  well  at 
last  he  knew 

The  maiden  of  the  spinning-wheel  was  to  her  troth- 
plight  true. 

"  Ah,  roguish  little  Elsie  !  you  act  your  part  full 
well : 

You  know  that  I  must  bear  my  shield  and  in  my 
castle  dwell ! 

"  The   lions   ramping   on  that  shield  between  the 

hearts  aflame 
Keep  watch  o'er  Denmark's  honor,  and  guard  her 

ancient  name. 


KING    VOLMER  AND  ELSIE  351 

For  know  that  I  am  Volmer ;  I  dwell  in  yonder 

towers, 
Who   ploughs    them   ploughs    up    Denmark,    this 

goodly  home  of  ours  ! 

"  I  tempt  no  more,  fair  Elsie !  your  heart  I  know 

is  true  ; 
Would  God  that  all  our  maidens  were  good  and 

pure  as  you  ! 
Well  have  you  pleased  your  monarch,  and  he  shall 

well  repay ; 
God's   peace  !     Farewell !     To-morrow  "will  bring 

another  day !  " 

He  lifted  up  his  bridle  hand,  he  spurred  his  good 
steed  then, 

And  like  a  whirl-blast  swept  away  with  all  his  gal- 
lant men. 

The  steel  hoofs  beat  the  rocky  path ;  again  on 
winds  of  morn 

The  wood  resounds  with  cry  of  hounds  and  blare 
of  hunter's  horn. 

"  Thou  true  and  ever  faithful !  "  the  listening  Hen- 

rik  cried ; 
And,   leaping   o'er    the  green   hedge,  he  stood  by 

Elsie's  side. 
None  saw  the  fond  embracing,  save,  shining  from 

afar, 
The  Golden  Goose  that  watched  them  from  the 

tower  of  Valdemar. 


352    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

O  darling  girls  of  Denmark !  of  all  the  flowers 

that  throng 
Her  vales  of  spring  the  fairest,  I  sing  for  you  my 

song. 
No  praise  as  yours  so  bravely  rewards  the  singer's 

skill; 
Thank   God !   of  maids  like   Elsie  the  land  has 

plenty  still  1 
1872. 


THE  THREE  BELLS. 

BENEATH  the  low-hung  night  cloud 
That  raked  her  splintering  mast 

The  good  ship  settled  slowly, 
The  cruel  leak  gained  fast 

Over  the  awful  ocean 

Her  signal  guns  pealed  out. 

Dear  God !  was  that  Thy  answer 
From  the  horror  round  about  ? 

A  voice  came  down  the  wild  wind, 

"  Ho !  ship  ahoy  !  "  its  cry  : 

"  Our  stout  Three  Bells  of  Glasgow 

Shall  lay  till  daylight  by  !  " 

Hour  after  hour  crept  slowly, 
Yet  on  the  heaving  swells 

Tossed  up  and  down  the  ship-lights, 
The  lights  of  the  Three  Bells ! 


THE   THREE  BELLS  353 

And  ship  to  ship  made  signals, 

Man  answered  back  to  man, 
While  oft,  to  cheer  and  hearten, 

The  Three  Bells  nearer  ran; 

And  the  captain  from  her  taffrail 

Sent  down  his  hopeful  cry : 
"  Take  heart !  Hold  on  !  "  he  shouted ; 
"  The  Three  Bells  shall  lay  by !  " 

All  night  across  the  waters 

The  tossing  lights  shone  clear ; 

All  night  from  reeling  taffrail 
The  Three  Bells  sent  her  cheer. 

And  when  the  dreary  watches 
Of  storm  and  darkness  passed, 

Just  as  the  wreck  lurched  under, 

All  souls  were  saved  at  last.  , 

Sail  on,  Three  Bells,  forever, 

In  grateful  memory  sail ! 
Ring  on,  Three  Bells  of  rescue, 

Above  the  wave  and  gale  ! 

Type  of  the  Love  eternal, 

Repeat  the  Master's  cry, 
As  tossing  through  our  darknes8 

The  lights  of  God  draw  nigh ! 

1872. 


354    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 


JOHN  UNDERBILL. 

A  SCORE  of  years  had  come  and  gone 
Since  the  Pilgrims  landed  on  Plymouth  stone, 
When  Captain  Underbill,  bearing  scars 
From  Indian  ambush  and  Flemish  wars, 
Left  three-hilled  Boston  and  wandered  down, 
East  by  north,  to  Cocheco  town. 

With  Vane  the  younger,  in  counsel  sweet, 
He  had  sat  at  Anna  Hutchinson's  feet, 
And,  when  the  bolt  of  banishment  fell 
On  the  head  of  his  saintly  oracle, 
He  had  shared  her  ill  as  her  good  report, 
And  braved  the  wrath  of  the  General  Court. 

He  shook  from  his  feet  as  he  rode  away 

The  dust  of  the  Massachusetts  Bay. 

The  world  might  bless  and  the  world  might  ban, 

What  did  it  matter  the  perfect  man, 

To  whom  the  freedom  of  earth  was  given, 

Proof  against  sin,  and  sure  of  heaven  ? 

He  cheered  his  heart  as  he  rode  along 
With  screed  of  Scripture  and  holy  song, 
Or  thought  how  he  rode  with  his  lances  free 
By  the  Lower  Rhine  and  the  Zuyder-Zee, 
Till  his  wood-path  grew  to  a  trodden  road, 
And  Hilton  Point  in  the  distance  showed. 

He  saw  the  church  with  the  block-house  nigh, 
The  two  fair  rivers,  the  flakes  thereby, 


JOHN  UNDERHILL  355 

And,  tacking  to  windward,  low  and  crank, 
The  little  shallop  from  Strawberry  Bank  ; 
And  he  rose  in  his  stirrups  and  looked  abroad 
Over  land  and  water,  and  praised  the  Lord. 

Goodly  and  stately  and  grave  to  see, 

Into  the  clearing's  space  rode  he, 

With  the  sun  on  the  hilt  of  his  sword  in  sheath, 

And  his  silver  buckles  and  spurs  beneath, 

And  the  settlers  welcomed  him,  one  and  all, 

From  swift  Quampeagan  to  Gonic  Fall. 

And  he  said  to  the  elders :  "  Lo,  I  come 

As  the  way  seemed  open  to  seek  a  home. 

Somewhat  the  Lord  hath  wrought  by  my  hands 

In  the  Narragansetfc  and  Netherlands, 

And   if    here   ye   have   work   for   a  Christian 

man, 
I  will  tarry,  and  serve  ye  as  best  I  can. 

I  boast  not  of  gifts,  but  fain  would  own 
The  wonderful  favor  God  hath  shown, 
The  special  mercy  vouchsafed  one  day 
On  the  shore  of  Narragansett  Bay, 
As  I  sat,  with  my  pipe,  from  the  camp  aside, 
And  mused  like  Isaac  at  eventide. 

•  A  sudden  sweetness  of  peace  I  found, 
A  garment  of  gladness  wrapped  me  round ; 
I  felt  from  the  law  of  works  released, 
The  strife  of  the  flesh  and  spirit  ceased, 
My  faith  to  a  full  assurance  grew, 
And  all  I  had  hoped  for  myself  I  knew. 


356    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

"  Now,  as  God  appointeth,  I  keep  my  way, 
I  shall  not  stumble,  I  shall  not  stray ; 
He  hath  taken  away  my  fig-leaf  dress, 
I  wear  the  robe  of  His  righteousness  ; 
And  the  shafts  of  Satan  no  more  avail 
Thau  Pequot  arrows  on  Christian  mail." 

"  Tarry  with  us,"  the  settlers  cried, 

"  Thou  man  of  God,  as  our  ruler  and  guide." 

And  Captain  Underbill  bowed  his  head. 
"  The  will  of  the  Lord  be  done !  "  he  said. 
And  the  morrow  beheld  him  sitting  down 
In  the  ruler's  seat  in  Cocheco  town. 

And  he  judged  therein  as  a  just  man  should ; 
His  words  were  wise  and  his  rule  was  good ; 
He  coveted  not  his  neighbor's  land, 
From  the  holding  of  bribes  he  shook  his  hand ; 
And  through  the  camps  of  the  heathen  ran 
A  wholesome  fear  of  the  valiant  man. 

But  the  heart  is  deceitful,  the  good  Book  saith, 
And  life  hath  ever  a  savor  of  death. 
Through  hymns  of  triumph  the  tempter  calls, 
And  whoso  thinketh  he  standeth  falls. 
Alas !  ere  their  round  the  seasons  ran, 
There  was  grief  in  the  soul  of  the  saintly  man. 

The  tempter's  arrows  that  rarely  fail 
Had  found  the  joints  of  his  spiritual  mail; 
And  men  took  note  of  his  gloomy  air, 
The  shame  in  his  eye,  the  halt  in  his  prayer, 
The  signs  of  a  battle  lost  within, 
The  pain  of  a  soul  in  the  coils  of  sin. 


JOHN   UNDERBILL  357 

Then  a  whisper  of  scandal  linked  his  name 

With  broken  vows  and  a  life  of  blame ; 

And  the  people  looked  askance  on  him 

As  he  walked  among  them  sullen  and  grim, 

111  at  ease,  and  bitter  of  word, 

And  prompt  of  quarrel  with  hand  or  sword. 

None  knew  how,  with  prayer  and  fasting  still, 
He  strove  in  the  bonds  of  his  evil  will ; 
But  he  shook  himself  like  Samson  at  length, 
And  girded  anew  his  loins  of  strength, 
And  bade  the  crier  go  up  and  down 
And  call  together  the  wondering  town. 

Jeer  and  murmur  and  shaking  of  head 
Ceased  as  he  rose  in  his  place  and  said  : 
"  Men,  brethren,  and  fathers,  well  ye  know 
How  I  came  among  you  a  year  ago, 
Strong  in  the  faith  that  my  soul  was  freed 
From  sin  of  feeling,  or  thought,  or  deed. 

"  I  have  sinned,  I  own  it  with  grief  and  shame, 
But  not  with  a  lie  on  my  lips  I  came. 
In  my  blindness  I  verily  thought  my  heart 
Swept  and  garnished  in  every  part. 
He  chargeth  His  angels  with  folly ;  He  sees 
The  heavens  unclean.     "Was  I  more  than  these  ? 

"  I  urge  no  plea.     At  your  feet  I  lay 
The  trust  you  gave  me,  and  go  my  way. 
Hate  me  or  pity  me,  as  you  will, 
The  Lord  will  have  mercy  on  sinners  still ; 
And  I,  who  am  chiefest,  say  to  all, 
Watch  and  pray,  lest  ye  also  fall." 


358    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

No  voice  made  answer :  a  sob  so  low 

That  only  his  quickened  ear  could  know 

Smote  his  heart  with  a  bitter  pain, 

As  into  the  forest  he  rode  again, 

And  the  veil  of  its  oaken  leaves  shut  down 

On  his  latest  glimpse  of  Cocheco  town. 

Crystal-clear  on  the  man  of  sin 
The  streams  flashed  up,  and  the  sky  shone  in ; 
On  his  cheek  of  fever  the  cool  wind  blew, 
The  leaves  dropped  on  him  their  tears  of  dew, 
And  angels  of  God,  in  the  pure,  sweet  guise 
Of  flowers,  looked  on  him  with  sad  surprise. 

Was  his  ear  at  fault  that  brook  and  breeze 
Sang  in  their  saddest  of  minor  keys  ? 
What  was  it  the  mournful  wood-thrush  said  ? 
What  whispered  the  pine-trees  overhead  ? 
Did  he  hear  the  Voice  on  his  lonely  way 
That  Adam  heard  in  the  cool  of  day  ? 

Into  the  desert  alone  rode  he, 

Alone  with  the  Infinite  Purity  ; 

And,  bowing  his  soul  to  its  tender  rebuke, 

As  Peter  did  to  the  Master's  look, 

He  measured  his  path  with  prayers  of  pain 

For  peace  with  God  and  nature  again. 

And  in  after  years  to  Cocheco  came 

The  bruit  of  a  once  familiar  name ; 

How  among  the  Dutch  of  New  Netherlands, 

From  wild  Danskamer  to  Haarlem  sands, 

A  penitent  soldier  preached  the  Word, 

And  smote  the  heathen  with  Gideon's  sword ! 


CONDUCTOR   BRADLEY  359 

And  the  heart  of  Boston  was  glad  to  hear 
How  he  harried  the  foe  on  the  long  frontier, 
And  heaped  on  the  land  against  him  barred 
The  coals  of  his  generous  watch  and  ward. 
Frailest  and  bravest !  the  Bay  State  still 
Counts  with  her  worthies  John  Underbill. 
1873. 


CONDUCTOR  BRADLEY. 

A  railway  conductor  who  lost  his  life  in  an  accident  on  a  Con- 
necticut railway,  May  9,  1873. 

CONDUCTOR  BRADLEY,  (always  may  his  name 
Be  said  with  reverence  !)  as  the  swift  doom  came, 
Smitten  to  death,  a  crushed  and  mangled  frame, 

Sank,  with  the  brake   he  grasped  just  where  he 

stood 

To  do  the  utmost  that  a  brave  man  could, 
And  die,  if  needful,  as  a  true  man  should. 

Men  stooped   above   him ;   women  dropped  their 

tears 

On  that  poor  wreck  beyond  all  hopes  or  fears, 
Lost  in  the  strength  and  glory  of  his  years. 

What  heard  they  ?     Lo !  the  ghastly  lips  of  pain, 
Dead  to  all  thought  save  duty's,  moved  again : 
"  Put  out  the  signals  for  the  other  train  ! " 

No  nobler  utterance  since  the  world  began 
From  lips  of  saint  or  martyr  ever  ran, 
Electric,  through  the  sympathies  of  man. 


360  NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

Ah  me  !  how  poor  and  noteless  seem  to  this 
The  sick-bed  dramas  of  self-consciousness, 
Our  sensual  fears  of  pain  and  hopes  of  bliss  ! 

Oh,  grand,  supreme  endeavor !     Not  in  vain 
That  last  brave  act  of  failing  tongue  and  brain ! 
Freighted  with  life  the  downward  rushing  train, 

Following  the  wrecked  one,  as  wave  follows  wave, 
Obeyed  the  warning  which  the  dead  lips  gave. 
Others  he  saved,  himself  he  could  not  save. 

Nay,  the  lost  life  was  saved.     He  is  not  dead 
Who  in  his  record  still  the  earth  shall  tread 
With  God's  clear  aureole  shining  round  his  head. 

We  bow  as  in  the  dust,  with  all  our  pride 
Of  virtue  dwarfed  the  noble  deed  beside. 
God  give  us  grace  to  live  as  Bradley  died ! 

1873. 


THE  WITCH  OF  WENHAM. 

The  house  is  still  standing  in  Danvers,  Mass. ,  where,  it  is  said,  a 
suspected  witch  was  confined  overnight  in  the  attic,  which  was 
bolted  fast.  In  the  morning  when  the  constable  came  to  take  her 
to  Salem  for  trial  she  was  missing,  although  the  door  was  still 
bolted.  Her  escape  was  doubtless  aided  by  her  friends,  but  at 
the  time  it  was  attributed  to  Satanic  interference. 


ALONG  Crane  Kiver's  sunny  slopes 
Blew  warm  the  winds  of  May, 

And  over  Naumkeag's  ancient  oaks 
The  green  outgrew  the  gray. 


THE  WITCH  OF  WENHAM  361 

The  grass  was  green  on  Rial-side, 

The  early  birds  at  will 
Waked  up  the  violet  in  its  dell, 

The  wind-flower  on  its  hill. 

"  Where  go  you,  in  your  Sunday  coat, 

Son  Andrew,  tell  me,  pray." 
"  For  striped  perch  in  Wenhain  Lake 

I  go  to  fish  to-day." 

"  Unharmed  of  thee  in  Wenham  Lake 

The  mottled  perch  shall  be  : 
A  blue-eyed  witch  sits  on  the  bank 
And  weaves  her  net  for  thee. 

"  She  weaves  her  golden  hair  ;  she  sings 

Her  spell-song  low  and  faint ; 
The  wickedest  witch  in  Salem  jail 
Is  to  that  girl  a  saint." 

"  Nay,  mother,  hold  thy  cruel  tongue  ; 

God  knows,"  the  young  man  cried, 
"  He  never  made  a  whiter  soul 

Than  hers  by  Wenham  side. 

"  She  tends  her  mother  sick  and  blind, 

And  every  want  supplies  ; 
To  her  above  the  blessed  Book 
She  lends  her  soft  blue  eyes. 

"  Her  voice  is  glad  with  holy  songs, 
Her  lips  are  sweet  with  prayer  ; 
Go  where  you  will,  in  ten  miles  round 
Is  none  more  good  and  fair." 


362    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

"  Son  Andrew,  for  the  love  of  God 

And  of  thy  mother,  stay  !  " 
She  clasped  her  hands,  she  wept  aloud, 
But  Andrew  rode  away. 

"  O  reverend  sir,  my  Andrew's  soul 
The  Wenham  witch  has  caught ; 
She  holds  him  with  the  curled  gold 
Whereof  her  snare  is  wrought. 

"  She  charms  him  with  her  great  blue  eyes, 

She  binds  him  with  her  hair  ; 
Oh,  break  the  spell  with  holy  words, 
Unbind  him  with  a  prayer  !  " 

"  Take  heart,"  the  painful  preacher  said, 

"  This  mischief  shall  not  be ; 
The  witch  shall  perish  in  her  sins 
And  Andrew  shall  go  free. 

"  Our  poor  Ann  Putnam  testifies 

She  saw  her  weave  a  spell, 
Bare-armed,  loose-haired,  at  full  of  moon, 
Around  a  dried-up  well. 

'*  *  Spring  up,  O  well ! '  she  softly  sang 

The  Hebrew's  old  refrain 

(For  Satan  uses  Bible  words), 

Till  water  flowed  amain. 

"  And  many  a  goodwife  heard  her  speak 

By  Wenham  water  words 
That  made  the  buttercups  take  wings 
And  turn  to  yellow  birds. 


THE  WITCH  OF  WEN  HAM  363 

"  They  say  that  swarming  wild  bees  seek 

The  hive  at  her  command  ; 
And  fishes  swim  to  take  their  food 
From  out  her  dainty  hand. 

"  Meek  as  she  sits  in  meeting-time, 

The  godly  minister 
Notes  well  the  spell  that  doth  compel 
The  young  men's  eyes  to  her. 

"  The  mole  upon  her  dimpled  chin 

Is  Satan's  seal  and  sign  ; 
Her  lips  are  red  with  evil  bread 
And  stain  of  unblest  wine. 

"  For  Tituba,  my  Indian,  saith 

At  Quasycung  she  took 
The  Black  Man's  godless  sacrament 
And  signed  his  dreadful  book. 

"  Last  night  my  sore-afflicted  child 
Against  the  young  witch  cried. 
To  take  her  Marshal  Herrick  rides 
Even  now  to  Wenham  side." 

The  marshal  in  his  saddle  sat, 

His  daughter  at  his  knee  ; 
"  I  go  to  fetch  that  arrant  witch, 
Thy  fair  playmate,"  quoth  he. 

"  Her  spectre  walks  the  parsonage, 

And  haunts  both  hall  and  stair ; 
They  know  her  by  the  great  blue  eyes 
And  floating  gold  of  hair." 


364  NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

"  They  lie,  they  lie,  my  father  dear ! 

No  foul  old  witch  is  she, 
But  sweet  and  good  and  crystal-pure 
As  Wenham  waters  be." 

"  I  tell  thee,  child,  the  Lord  hath  set 

Before  us  good  and  ill, 
And  woe  to  all  whose  carnal  loves 
Oppose  His  righteous  will. 

"  Between  Him  and  the  powers  of  hell 

Choose  thou,  my  child,  to-day  : 
No  sparing  hand,  no  pitying  eye, 
When  God  commands  to  slay  !  " 

He  went  his  way ;  the  old  wives  shook 

With  fear  as  he  drew  nigh  ; 
The  children  in  the  dooryards  held 

Their  breath  as  he  passed  by. 

Too  well  they  knew  the  gaunt  gray  horse 

The  grim  witch-hunter  rode 
The  pale  Apocalyptic  beast 

By  grisly  Death  bestrode. 

II. 

Oh,  fair  the  face  of  Wenham  Lake 

Upon  the  young  girl's  shone, 
Her  tender  mouth,  her  dreaming  eyes, 

Her  yellow  hair  outblown. 

By  happy  youth  and  love  attuned 
To  natural  harmonies, 


THE  WITCH  OF  WENHAM  365 

The  singing  birds,  the  whispering  wind, 
She  sat  beneath  the  trees. 

Sat  shaping  for  her  bridal  dress 

Her  mother's  wedding  gown, 
When  lo !  the  marshal,  writ  in  hand, 

From  Alford  hill  rode  down. 

His  face  was  hard  with  cruel  fear, 
He  grasped  the  maiden's  hands : 
"  Come  with  me  unto  Salem  town, 
For  so  the  law  commands  !  " 


"  Oh,  let  me  to  my  mother  say 

Farewell  before  I  go  !  " 
He  closer  tied  her  little  hands 
Unto  his  saddle  bow. 

"  Unhand  me,"  cried  she  piteously, 
"  For  thy  sweet  daughter's  sake." 

"  I  '11  keep  my  daughter  safe,"  he  said, 
"  From  the  witch  of  Wenhani  Lake." 

"  Oh,  leave  me  for  my  mother's  sake, 

She  needs  my  eyes  to  see." 
"  Those  eyes,  young  witch,  the  crows  shall  peck 

From  off  the  gallows-tree." 

He  bore  her  to  a  farm-house  old, 

And  up  its  stairway  long, 
And  closed  on  her  the  garret-door 

With  iron  bolted  strong. 


366    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

The  day  died  out,  the  night  came  down : 

Her  evening  prayer  she  said, 
While,  through  the  dark,  strange  faces  seemed 

To  mock  her  as  she  prayed. 

The  present  horror  deepened  all 

The  fears  her  childhood  knew  ; 
The  awe  wherewith  the  air  was  filled 

With  every  breath  she  drew. 

And  could  it  be,  she  trembling  asked, 

Some  secret  thought  or  sin 
Had  shut  good  angels  from  her  heart 

And  let  the  bad  ones  in  ? 

Had  she  in  some  forgotten  dream 

Let  go  her  hold  on  Heaven, 
And  sold  herself  unwittingly 

To  spirits  unforgiven  ? 

Oh,  weird  and  still  the  dark  hours  passed  ; 

No  human  sound  she  heard, 
But  up  and  down  the  chimney  stack 

The  swallows  moaned  and  stirred. 

And  o'er  her,  with  a  dread  surmise 

Of  evil  sight  and  sound, 
The  blind  bats  on  their  leathern  wings 

Went  wheeling  round  and  round. 

Low  hanging  in  the  midnight  sky 

Looked  in  a  half-faced  moon. 
Was  it  a  dream,  or  did  she  hear 

Her  lover's  whistled  tune  ? 


THE  WITCH  OF  WEN  HAM  367 

She  forced  the  oaken  scuttle  back ; 

A  whisper  reached  her  ear  : 
Slide  down  the  roof  to  me,"  it  said, 

"  So  softly  none  may  hear." 

She  slid  along  the  sloping  roof 

Till  from  its  eaves  she  hung, 
And  felt  the  loosened  shingles  yield 

To  which  her  fingers  clung. 

Below,  her  lover  stretched  his  hands 
And  touched  her  feet  so  small ; 

1  Drop  down  to  me,  dear  heart,"  he  said5 
"  My  arms  shall  break  the  fall." 

He  set  her  on  his  pillion  soft, 

Her  arms  about  him  twined  ; 
And,  noiseless  as  if  velvet-shod, 

They  left  the  house  behind. 

But  when  they  reached  the  open  way, 

Full  free  the  rein  he  cast ; 
Oh,  never  through  the  mirk  midnight 

Rode  man  and  maid  more  fast. 

Along  the  wild  wood-paths  they  sped, 
The  bridgeless  streams  they  swam ; 

At  set  of  moon  they  passed  the  Bass, 
At  sunrise  Agawam. 

At  high  noon  on  the  Merrimac 

The  ancient  ferryman 
Forgot,  at  times,  his  idle  oars, 

So  fair  a  freight  to  scan. 


368    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

And  when  from  off  his  grounded  boat 

He  saw  them  mount  and  ride, 
"  God  keep  her  from  the  evil  eye, 
And  harm  of  witch  !  "  he  cried. 

The  maiden  laughed,  as  youth  will  laugh 

At  all  its  fears  gone  by  ; 
"  He  does  not  know,"  she  whispered  low, 
"  A  little  witch  am  I." 

All  day  he  urged  his  weary  horse, 

And,  in  the  red  sundown, 
Drew  rein  before  a  friendly  door 

In  distant  Berwick  town. 

A  fellow-feeling  for  the  wronged 

The  Quaker  people  felt ; 
And  safe  beside  their  kindly  hearths 

The  hunted  maiden  dwelt, 

Until  from  off  its  breast  the  land 

The  haunting  horror  threw, 
And  hatred,  born  of  ghastly  dreams, 

To  shame  and  pity  grew. 

Sad  were  the  year's  spring  morns,  and  sad 

Its  golden  summer  day, 
But  blithe  and  glad  its  withered  fields, 

And  skies  of  ashen  gray  ; 

For  spell  and  charm  had  power  no  more, 

The  spectres  ceased  to  roam, 
And  scattered  households  knelt  again 

Around  the  hearths  of  home. 


The  Witch  of  Wenham 


KING  SOLOMON  AND    THE  ANTS      £ 

And  when  once  more  by  Beaver  Dam 

The  meadow-lark  outsang, 
And  once  again  on  all  the  hills 

The  early  violets  sprang, 

And  all  the  windy  pasture  slopes 
Lay  green  within  the  arms 

Of  creeks  that  bore  the  salted  sea 
To  pleasant  inland  farms, 

The  smith  filed  off  the  chains  he  forged, 
The  jail-bolts  backward  feU ; 

And  youth  and  hoary  age  came  forth 
Like  souls  escaped  from  hell. 

1877. 


KING  SOLOMON  AND  THE  ANTS. 

OUT  from  Jerusalem 

The  king  rode  with  his  great 
War  chiefs  and  lords  of  state, 

And  Sheba's  queen  with  them ; 

Comely,  but  black  withal, 
To  whom,  perchance,  belongs 
That  wondrous  Song  of  songs, 

Sensuous  and  mystical, 

Whereto  devout  souls  turn 

In  fond,  ecstatic  dream, 

And  through  its  earth-born  theme 
The  Love  of  loves  discern. 


370     NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

Proud  in  the  Syrian  sun, 
In  gold  and  purple  sheen, 
The  dusky  Ethiop  queen 

Smiled  on  King  Solomon. 

Wisest  of  men,  he  knew 
The  languages  of  all 
The  creatures  great  or  small 

That  trod  the  earth  or  flew. 

Across  an  ant-hill  led 

The  king's  path,  and  he  heard 
Its  small  folk,  and  their  word 

He  thus  interpreted : 

"Here  comes  the  king  men  greet 
As  wise  and  good  and  just, 
To  crush  us  in  the  dust 
Under  his  heedless  feet." 


The  great  king  bowed  his  head, 
And  saw  the  wide  surprise 
Of  the  Queen  of  Sheba's  eyes 

As  he  told  her  what  they  said. 

1  O  king  !  "  she  whispered  sweet, 
"  Too  happy  fate  have  they 
Who  perish  in  thy  way 
Beneath  thy  gracious  feet ! 

Thou  of  the  God-lent  crown, 
Shall  these  vile  creatures  dare 
Murmur  against  thee  where 

The  knees  of  kings  kneel  down  ?  " 


IN  THE  "  OLD  SOUTH"  371 

"  Nay,"  Solomon  replied, 

"  The  wise  and  strong  should  seek 
The  welfare  of  the  weak," 
And  turned  his  horse  aside. 

His  train,  with  quick  alarm, 

Curved  with  their  leader  round 
The  ant-hill's  peopled  mound, 

And  left  it  free  from  harm. 

The  jewelled  head  bent  low  ; 

"  O  king !  "  she  said,  "  henceforth 

The  secret  of  thy  worth 
And  wisdom  well  I  know. 

"  Happy  must  be  the  State 
Whose  ruler  heedeth  more 
The  murmurs  of  the  poor 
Than  flatteries  of  the  great." 

1877. 


IN  THE   "OLD  SOUTH." 

On  the  8th  of  July,  1677,  Margaret  Brewster  with  four  other 
Friends  went  into  the  South  Church  in  time  of  meeting,  "  in  sack- 
cloth, with  ashes  upon  her  head,  barefoot,  and  her  face  black- 
ened," and  delivered  "  a  warning  from  the  great  God  of  Heaven 
and  Earth  to  the  Rulers  and  Magistrates  of  Boston. ' '  For  the 
offence  she  was  sentenced  to  be  "  whipped  at  a  cart's  tail  up  and 
down  the  Town,  with  twenty  lashes." 

SHE  came  and  stood  in  the  Old  South  Church, 

A  wonder  and  a  sign, 
With  a  look  the  old-time  sibyls  wore, 

Half-crazed  and  half -divine. 


372    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

Save  the  mournful  sackcloth  about  her  wound, 
Unclothed  as  the  primal  mother, 

With  limbs  that  trembled  and  eyes  that  blazed 
With  a  fire  she  dare  not  smother. 


Loose  on  her  shoulders  fell  her  hair, 

With  sprinkled  ashes  gray  ; 
She  stood  in  the  broad  aisle  strange  and  weird 

As  a  soul  at  the  judgment  day. 

And  the  minister  paused  in  his  sermon's  midst, 
And  the  people  held  their  breath, 

For  these  were  the  words  the  maiden  spoke 
Through  lips  as  the  lips  of  death : 

"  Thus  saith  the  Lord,  with  equal  feet 

All  men  my  courts  shall  tread, 
And  priest  and  ruler  no  more  shall  eat 
My  people  up  like  bread  ! 

"  Kepent !  repent !  ere  the  Lord  shall  speak 

In  thunder  and  breaking  seals  ! 
Let  all  souls  worship  Him  in  the  way 
His  light  within  reveals." 

She  shook  the  dust  from  her  naked  feet, 

And  her  sackcloth  closer  drew, 
And  into  the  porch  of  the  awe-hushed  church 

She  passed  like  a  ghost  from  view. 

They  whipped  her  away  at  the  tail  o'  the  cart 
Through  half  the  streets  of  the  town, 

But  the  words  she  uttered  that  day  nor  fire 
Could  burn  nor  water  drown. 


THE  HENCHMAN  373 

And  now  the  aisles  of  the  ancient  church 

By  equal  feet  are  trod, 
And  the  bell  that  swings  in  its  belfry  rings 

Freedom  to  worship  God  ! 

And  now  whenever  a  wrong  is  done 

It  thrills  the  conscious  walls ; 
The  stone  from  the  basement  cries  aloud 

And  the  beam  from  the  timber  calls. 

There  are  steeple-houses  on  every  hand, 

And  pulpits  that  bless  and  ban, 
And  the  Lord  will  not  grudge  the  single  church 

That  is  set  apart  for  man. 

For  in  two  commandments  are  all  the  law 

And  the  prophets  under  the  sun, 
And  the  first  is  last  and  the  last  is  first, 

And  the  twain  are  verily  one. 

So,  long  as  Boston  shall  Boston  be, 

And  her  bay-tides  rise  and  fall, 
Shall  freedom  stand  in  the  Old  South  Church 

And  plead  for  the  rights  of  all ! 

1877. 


THE  HENCHMAN. 

MY  lady  walks  her  morning  round, 
My  lady's  page  her  fleet  greyhound, 
My  lady's  hair  the  fond  winds  stir, 
And  all  the  birds  make  songs  for  her. 


374    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

Her  thrushes  sing  in  Rathburn  bowers, 
And  Rathburn  side  is  gay  with  flowers; 
But  ne'er  like  hers,  in  flower  or  bird, 
Was  beauty  seen  or  music  heard. 

The  distance  of  the  stars  is  hers  ; 
The  least  of  all  her  worshippers, 
The  dust  beneath  her  dainty  heel, 
She  knows  not  that  I  see  or  feel. 

Oh,  proud  and  calm  !  —  she  cannot  know 
Where'er  she  goes  with  her  I  go ; 
Oh,  cold  and  fair !  —  she  cannot  guess 
I  kneel  to  share  her  hound's  caress! 

Gay  knights  beside  her  hunt  and  hawk, 
I  rob  their  ears  of  her  sweet  talk ; 
Her  suitors  come  from  east  and  west, 
I  steal  her  smiles  from  every  guest. 

Unheard  of  her,  in  loving  words, 
I  greet  her  with  the  song  of  birds  ; 
I  reach  her  with  her  green-armed  bowers, 
I  kiss  her  with  the  lips  of  flowers. 

The  hound  and  I  are  on  her  trail, 
The  wind  and  I  uplift  her  veil ; 
As  if  the  calm,  cold  moon  she  were, 
And  I  the  tide,  I  follow  her. 

As  nnrebuked  as  they,  I  share 
The  license  of  the  sun  and  air, 


THE  DEAD  FEAST  OF  THE  KOL-FOLK     375 

And  in  a  common  homage  hide 

My  worship  from  her  scorn  and  pride. 

World-wide  apart,  and  yet  so  near, 
I  breathe  her  charmed  atmosphere, 
Wherein  to  her  my  service  brings 
The  reverence  due  to  holy  things. 

Her  maiden  pride,  her  haughty  name, 
My  dumb  devotion  shall  not  shame  ; 
The  love  that  no  return  doth  crave 
To  knightly  levels  lifts  the  slave. 

No  lance  have  I,  in  joust  or  fight, 
To  splinter  in  my  lady's  sight  \ 
But,  at  her  feet,  how  blest  were  I 
For  any  need  of  hers  to  die  ! 

1877. 


THE   DEAD  FEAST  OF  THE  KOL-FOLK. 

E.  B.  Tylor  in  his  Primitive  Culture,  chapter  xii.,  gives  an  ac- 
count of  the  reverence  paid  the  dead  by  the  Kol  tribes  of  Chota 
Nagpur,  Assam.  "  When  a  Ho  or  Munda,"  he  says,  "  has  been 
burned  on  the  funeral  pile,  collected  morsels  of  his  bones  are  car- 
ried in  procession  with  a  solemn,  ghostly,  sliding  step,  keeping 
time  to  the  deep  sounding  drum,  and  when  the  old  woman  who 
carries  the  bones  on  her  bamboo  tray  lowers  it  from  time  to  time, 
then  girls  who  carry  pitchers  and  brass  vessels  mournfully  reverse 
them  to  show  that  they  are  empty  ;  thus  the  remains  are  taken 
to  visit  every  house  in  the  village,  and  every  dwelling  of  a  friend 
or  relative  for  miles,  and  the  inmates  come  out  to  mourn  and 
praise  the  goodnass  of  the  departed  ;  the  bones  are  carried  to  all 
the  dead  man's  favorite  haunts,  to  the  fields  he  cultivated,  to  the 
grove  he  planted,  to  the  threshing-floor  where  he  worked,  to  the 
village  dance-room  where  he  made  merry.  At  last  they  are  taken 
to  the  grave,  and  buried  in  an  earthen  vase  upon  a  store  of  food, 


376     NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

covered  with  one  of  those  huge  stone  slabs  which  European  visi- 
tors wonder  at  in  the  districts  of  the  aborigines  of  India."  In  the 
Journal  of  the  Asiatic  Society,  Bengal,  vol.  ix.,  p.  795,  is  a  Ho 
dirge. 

WE  have  opened  the  door, 

Once,  twice,  thrice  ! 
We  have  swept  the  floor, 

We  have  boiled  the  rice. 
Come  hither,  come  hither ! 
Come  from  the  far  lands, 
Come  from  the  star  lands, 

Come  as  before ! 
We  lived  long  together, 
We  loved  one  another  ; 

Come  back  to  our  life. 
Come  father,  come  mother, 
Come  sister  and  brother, 

Child,  husband,  and  wife, 
For  you  we  are  sighing. 
Come  take  your  old  places, 
Come  look  in  our  faces, 
The  dead  on  the  dying, 
Come  home ! 

We  have  opened  the  door, 

Once,  twice,  thrice ! 
We  have  kindled  the  coals, 

And  we  boil  the  rice 
For  the  feast  of  souls. 

Come  hither,  come  hither ! 
Think  not  we  fear  you, 
Whose  hearts  are  so  near  you 
Come  tenderly  thought  on, 
Come  all  unforgotten, 


THE  DEAD  FEAST  OF  THE  KOL-FOLK     377 

Come  from  the  shadow-lands, 
From  the  dim  meadow-lands 
Where  the  pale  grasses  bend 

Low  to  our  sighing. 
Come  father,  come  mother, 
Come  sister  and  brother, 
Come  husband  and  friend, 

The  dead  to  the  dying, 
Come  home ! 

We  have  opened  the  door 

You  entered  so  oft ; 
For  the  feast  of  souls 
We  have  kindled  the  coals, 

And  we  boil  the  rice  soft. 
Come  you  who  are  dearest 
To  us  who  are  nearest, 
Come  hither,  come  hither, 
From  out  the  wild  weather  ; 
The  storm  clouds  are  flying, 
The  peepul  is  sighing  ; 

Come  in  from  the  rain. 
Come  father,  come  mother, 
Come  sister  and  brother, 
Come  husband  and  lover, 
Beneath  our  roof-cover. 

Look  on  us  again, 

The  dead  on  the  dying, 

Come  home ! 

We  have  opened  the  door  ! 
For  the  feast  of  souls 
We  have  kindled  the  coals 
We  may  kindle  no  more  ! 


378    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

Snake,  fever,  and  famine, 
The  curse  of  the  Brahmin, 

The  sun  and  the  dew, 
They  burn  us,  they  bite  us, 
They  waste  us  and  smite  us ; 

Our  days  are  but  few  ! 
In  strange  lands  far  yonder 
To  wonder  and  wander 

We  hasten  to  you. 
List  then  to  our  sighing, 

While  yet  we  are  here  : 
Nor  seeing  nor  hearing, 
We  wait  without  fearing, 

To  feel  you  draw  near. 
O  dead,  to  the  dying 
Come  home ! 

1879. 


THE  KHAN'S  DEVIL. 

THE  Khan  came  from  Bokhara  town 
To  Hamza,  santon  of  renown. 

"  My  head  is  sick,  my  hands  are  weak  ; 
Thy  help,  O  holy  man,  I  seek." 

In  silence  marking  for  a  space 

The  Khan's  red  eyes  and  purple  face, 

Thick  voice,  and  loose,  uncertain  tread, 
"  Thou  hast  a  devil !  "  Hamza  said. 


THE  KHAN'S  DEVIL  379 

"  Allah  forbid !  "  exclaimed  the  Khan. 
"  Rid  me  of  him  at  once,  O  man  !  " 

"  Nay,"  Hamza  said,  "  no  spell  of  mine 
Can  slay  that  cursed  thing  of  thine. 

"  Leave  feast  and  wine,  go  forth  and  drink 
Water  of  healing  on  the  brink 

"  Where  clear  and  cold  from  mountain  snows, 
The  Nahr  el  Zeben  downward  flows. 

*'  Six  moons  remain,  then  come  to  me  ; 
May  Allah's  pity  go  with  thee  !  " 

Awestruck,  from  feast  and  wine  the  Khan 
Went  forth  where  Nahr  el  Zeben  ran. 

Roots  were  his  food,  the  desert  dust 
His  bed,  the  water  quenched  his  thirst ; 

And  when  the  sixth  moon's  scimetar 
Curved  sharp  above  the  evening  star, 

He  sought  again  the  santon's  door, 
Not  weak  and  trembling  as  before, 

But  strong  of  limb  and  clear  of  brain ; 
"  Behold,"  he  said,  "  the  fiend  is  slain." 

"Nay,"  Hamza  answered, "  starved  and  drowned, 
The  curst  one  lies  in  death-like  swound. 


380  NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

"  But  evil  breaks  the  strongest  gyves, 
And  jins  like  him  have  charmed  lives. 

"  One  beaker  of  the  juice  of  grape 
May  call  him  up  in  living  shape. 

"  When  the  red  wine  of  Badakshan 
Sparkles  for  thee,  beware,  O  Khan ! 

"  With  water  quench  the  fire  within, 
And  drown  each  day  thy  devilkin !  " 

Thenceforth  the  great  Khan  shunned  the  cup 
As  Shitan's  own,  though  offered  up, 

With  laughing  eyes  and  jewelled  hands, 
By  Yarkand's  maids  and  Samarcand's. 

And,  in  the  lofty  vestibule 

Of  the  medress  of  Kaush  Kodul, 

The  students  of  the  holy  law 
A  golden-lettered  tablet  saw, 

With  these  words,  by  a  cunning  hand, 
Graved  on  it  at  the  Khan's  command  : 

"  In  Allah's  name,  to  him  who  hath 
A  devil,  Khan  el  Hamed  saith, 

"  Wisely  our  Prophet  cursed  the  vine : 
The  fiend  that  loves  the  breath  of  wine 


THE  KING'S  MISSIVE  381 

"  No  prayer  can  slay,  no  marabout 
Nor  Meccaii  dervis  can  drive  out. 

"  I,  Khan  el  Hamed,  know  the  charm 
That  robs  him  of  his  power  to  harm. 

"  Drown  him,  O  Islam's  child !  the  spell 
To  save  thee  lies  in  tank  and  well !  " 

1879. 


THE  KING'S  MISSIVE. 
1661. 

This  ballad,  originally  written  for  The  Memorial  History  of 
Boston,  describes,  with  pardonable  poetic  license,  a  memorable 
incident  in  the  annals  of  the  city.  The  interview  between  Shat- 
tuck  and  the  Governor  took  place,  I  have  since  learned,  in  the 
residence  of  the  latter,  and  not  in  the  Council  Chamber.  The 
publication  of  the  ballad  led  to  some  discussion  as  to  the  histori- 
cal truthfulness  of  the  picture,  but  I  have  seen  no  reason  to  rub 
out  any  of  the  figures  or  alter  the  lines  and  colors. 

UNDER  the  great  hill  sloping  bare 

To  cove  and  meadow  and  Common  lot, 

In  his  council  chamber  and  oaken  chair, 
Sat  the  worshipful  Governor  Endicott. 

A  grave,  strong  man,  who  knew  no  peer 

In  the  pilgrim  land,  where  he  ruled  in  fear 

Of  God,  not  man,  and  for  good  or  ill 

Held  his  trust  with  an  iron  will. 

He  had  shorn  with  his  sword  the  cross  from  out 
The  flag,  and  cloven  the  May-pole  down, 

Harried  the  heathen  round  about, 

And  whipped  the  Quakers  from  town  to  town. 


382    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

Earnest  and  honest,  a  man  at  need 
To  burn  like  a  torch  for  his  own  harsh  creed, 
He  kept  with  the  flaming  brand  of  his  zeal 
The  gate  of  the  holy  common  weal. 

His  brow  was  clouded,  his  eye  was  stern, 
With  a  look  of  mingled  sorrow  and  wrath ; 

"  Woe  's  me  !  "  he  murmured  :  "  at  every  turn 
The  pestilent  Quakers  are  in  my  path ! 

Some  we  have  scourged,  and  banished  some, 

Some  hanged,  more  doomed,  and  still  they  come, 

Fast  as  the  tide  of  yon  bay  sets  in, 

Sowing  their  heresy's  seed  of  sin. 

"  Did  we  count  on  this  ?     Did  we  leave  behind 
The  graves  of  our  kin,  the  comfort  and  ease 
Of  our  English  hearths  and  homes,  to  find 

Troublers  of  Israel  such  as  these  ? 
Shall  I  spare  ?     Shall  I  pity  them  ?     God  forbid  ! 
I  will  do  as  the  prophet  to  Agag  did : 
They  come  to  poison  the  wells  of  the  Word, 
I  will  hew  them  in  pieces  before  the  Lord !  " 

The  door  swung  open,  and  Rawson  the  clerk 

Entered,  and  whispered  under  breath, 
"  There  waits  below  for  the  hangman's  work 

A  fellow  banished  on  pain  of  death  — 
Shattuck,  of  Salem,  unhealed  of  the  whip, 
Brought  over  in  Master  Goldsmith's  ship 
At  anchor  here  in  a  Christian  port, 
With  freight  of  the  devil  and  all  his  sort ! " 

Twice  and  thrice  on  the  chamber  floor 
Striding  fiercely  from  wall  to  wall, 


THE  KING'S  MISSIVE  383 

"  The  Lord  do  so  to  me  and  more," 

The  Governor  cried,  "  if  I  hang  not  all ! 
Bring  hither  the  Quaker."     Calm,  sedate, 
With  the  look  of  a  man  at  ease  with  fate, 
Into  that  presence  grim  and  dread 
Came  Samuel  Shattuck,  with  hat  on  head. 

"  Off  with  the  knave's  hat !  "     An  angry  hand 

Smote  down  the  offence  ;  but  the  wearer  said, 
With  a  quiet  smile,  "  By  the  king's  command 
I  bear  his  message  and  stand  in  his  stead." 
In  the  Governor's  hand  a  missive  he  laid 
With  the  royal  arras  on  its  seal  displayed, 
And  the  proud  man  spake  as  he  gazed  thereat, 
Uncovering,  "  Give  Mr.  Shattuck  his  hat." 

He  turned  to  the  Quaker,  bowing  low,  — 

"  The  king  commandeth  your  friends'  release  ; 

Doubt  not  he  shall  be  obeyed,  although 
To  his  subjects'  sorrow  and  sin's  increase. 

What  he  here  enjoineth,  John  Endicott, 

His  loyal  servant,  question  eth  not. 

You  are  free  !     God  grant  the  spirit  you  own 

May  take  you  from  us  to  parts  unknown." 

So  the  door  of  the  jail  was  open  cast, 

And,  like  Daniel,  out  of  the  lion's  den 
Tender  youth  and  girlhood  passed, 

With  age-bowed  women  and  gray-locked  men. 
And  the  voice  of  one  appointed  to  die 
Was  lifted  in  praise  and  thanks  on  high, 
And  the  little  maid  from  New  Netherlands 
Kissed,  in  her  joy,  the  doomed  man's  hands. 


384    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

And  one,  whose  call  was  to  minister 

To  the  souls  in  prison,  beside  him  went, 
An  ancient  woman,  bearing  with  her 

The  linen  shroud  for  his  burial  meant. 
For  she,  not  counting  her  own  life  dear, 
In  the  strength  of  a  love  that  cast  out  fear, 
Had  watched  and  served  where  her  brethren  died, 
Like  those  who  waited  the  cross  beside. 

One  moment  they  paused  on  their  way  to  look 
On  the  martyr  graves  by  the  Common  side, 
And  much  scourged  Wharton  of  Salem  took 

His  burden  of  prophecy  up  and  cried  : 
"  Rest,  souls  of  the  valiant !     Not  in  vain 
Have  ye  borne  the  Master's  cross  of  pain  ; 
Ye  have  fought  the  fight,  ye  are  victors  crowned, 
With  a  fourfold  chain  ye  have  Satan  bound  I  " 

The  autumn  haze  lay  soft  and  still 

On  wood  and  meadow  and  upland  farms ; 

On  the  brow  of  Snow  Hill  the  great  windmill 
Slowly  and  lazily  swung  its  arms  ; 

Broad  in  the  sunshine  stretched  away, 

With  its  capes  and  islands,  the  turquoise  bay; 

And  over  water  and  dusk  of  pines 

Blue  hills  lifted  their  faint  outlines. 

The  topaz  leaves  of  the  walnut  glowed, 
The  sumach  added  its  crimson  fleck, 

And  double  in  air  and  water  showed 
The  tinted  maples  along  the  Neck  ; 

Through  frost  flower  clusters  of  pale  star-mist, 

And  gentian  fringes  of  amethyst, 


THE  KING'S  MISSIVE  385 

And  royal  plumes  of  golden-rod, 
The  grazing  cattle  on  Gentry  trod. 

But  as  they  who  see  not,  the  Quakers  saw 
The  world  about  them  ;  they  only  thought 

With  deep  thanksgiving  and  pious  awe 

On  the  great  deliverance  God  had  wrought. 

Through  lane  and  alley  the  gazing  town 

Noisily  followed  them  up  and  down ; 

Some  with  scoffing  and  brutal  jeer, 

Some  with  pity  and  words  of  cheer. 

One  brave  voice  rose  above  the  din. 

TJpsall,  gray  with  his  length  of  days, 
Cried  from  the  door  of  his  Red  Lion  Inn  : 

"  Men  of  Boston,  give  God  the  praise ! 
No  more  shall  innocent  blood  call  down 
The  bolts  of  wrath  on  your  guilty  town. 
The  freedom  of  worship,  dear  to  you, 
Is  dear  to  all,  and  to  all  is  due. 

"  I  see  the  vision  of  days  to  come, 

When  your  beautiful  City  of  the  Bay 
Shall  be  Christian  liberty's  chosen  home, 

And  none  shall  his  neighbor's  rights  gainsay. 
The  varying  notes  of  worship  shall  blend 
And  as  one  great  prayer  to  God  ascend, 
And  hands  of  mutual  charity  raise 
Walls  of  salvation  and  gates  of  praise." 

So  passed  the  Quakers  through  Boston  town, 
Whose  painful  ministers  sighed  to  see 

The  walls  of  their  sheep-fold  falling  down, 
And  wolves  of  heresy  prowling  free. 


386    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

But  the  years  went  on,  and  brought  no  wrong ; 
With  milder  counsels  the  State  grew  strong, 
As  outward  Letter  and  inward  Light 
Kept  the  balance  of  truth  aright. 

The  Puritan  spirit  perishing  not, 

To  Concord's  yeomen  the  signal  sent, 
And  spake  in  the  voice  of  the  cannon-shot 
That  severed  the  chains  of  a  continent. 
With  its  gentler  mission  of  peace  and  good- will 
The  thought  of  the  Quaker  is  living  still, 
And  the  freedom  of  soul  he  prophesied 
Is  gospel  and  law  where  the  martyrs  died. 
1880. 


VALUATION. 

THE  old  Squire  said,  as  he  stood  by  his  gate, 

And  his  neighbor,  the  Deacon,  went  by, 
"  In  spite  of  my  bank  stock  and  real  estate, 
You  are  better  off,  Deacon,  than  I. 

"  We  're  both  growing  old,  and  the  end 's  drawing 

near, 

You  have  less  of  this  world  to  resign, 
But  in  Heaven's  appraisal  your  assets,  I  fear, 
Will  reckon  up  greater  than  mine. 

"  They  say  I  am  rich,  but  I  'm  feeling  so  poor, 

I  wish  I  could  swap  with  you  even  : 
The  pounds  I  have  lived  for  and  laid  up  in  store 
For  the  shillings  and  pence  you  have  given." 


RABBI  ISHMAEL  387 

"  Well,  Squire,"  said   the  Deacon,  with  shrewd 

common  sense, 

While  his  eye  had  a  twinkle  of  fun, 
"Let  your  pounds  take  the  way  of  my  shillings 

and  pence, 

And  the  thing  can  be  easily  done  !  " 
1880. 


RABBI  ISHMAEL. 

"Rabbi  Ishmael  Ben  Elisha  said,  Once,  I  entered  into  the 
Holy  of  Holies  [as  High  Priest]  to  burn  incense,  when  I  saw  Ak- 
triel  [the  Divine  Crown]  Jah,  Lord  of  Hosts,  sitting  upon  a  throne, 
high  and  lifted  up,  who  said  unto  me,  '  Ishmael,  my  son,  bless 
me.'  I  answered,  '  May  it  please  Thee  to  make  Thy  compassion 
prevail  over  Thine  anger ;  may  it  be  revealed  above  Thy  other  attri- 
butes; mayest  Thou  deal  with  Thy  children  according  to  it,  and  not 
according  to  the  strict  measure  of  judgment. '  It  seemed  to  me  that 
He  bowed  His  head,  as  though  to  answer  Amen  to  my  blessing." 
—  Talmud  (Berachoth,  i.  f.  6.  b.) 

THE  Rabbi  Ishmael,  with  the  woe  and  sin 
Of  the  world  heavy  upon  him,  entering  in 
The  Holy  of  Holies,  saw  an  awful  Face 
With  terrible  splendor  filling  all  the  place. 
"  O  Ishmael  Ben  Elisha !  "  said  a  voice, 
"What    seekest   thou  ?     What   blessing  is    thy 

choice  ?  " 

And,  knowing  that  he  stood  before  the  Lord, 
Within  the  shadow  of  the  cherubim, 
Wide -winged  between  the  blinding  light  and 

him, 

He  bowed  himself,  and  uttered  not  a  word, 
But  in  the  silence  of  his  soul  was  prayer : 
"  O  Thou  Eternal !     I  am  one  of  all, 
And  nothing  ask  that  others  may  not  share. 


388  NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

Thou  art  almighty ;  we  are  weak  and  small, 
And  yet  Thy  children :  let  Thy  mercy  spare  !  " 
Trembling,  he  raised  his  eyes,  and  in  the  place 
Of  the  insufferable  glory,  lo  !  a  face 
Of  more  than  mortal  tenderness,  that  bent 
Graciously  down  in  token  of  assent, 
And,  smiling,  vanished  !     With  strange  joy  elate, 
The  wondering  Rabbi  sought  the  temple's  gate. 
Radiant  as  Moses  from  the  Mount,  he  stood 
And  cried  aloud  unto  the  multitude  : 
"  O  Israel,  hear !     The  Lord  our  God  is  good  ! 
Mine  eyes  have  seen  his  glory  and  his  grace ; 
Beyond  his  judgments  shall  his  love  endure  ; 
The  mercy  of  the  All  Merciful  is  sure !  " 
1881. 


THE  ROCK-TOMB  OF  BRADORE. 

H.  Y.  Hind,  in  Explorations  in  the  Interior  of  the  Labrador 
Peninsula  (ii.  1G6)  mentions  the  finding  of  a  rock  tomb  near  the 
little  fishing  port  of  Bradore,  with  the  inscription  upon  it  which 
is  given  in  the  poem. 

A  DREAR  and  desolate  shore  ! 
Where  no  tree  unfolds  its  leaves, 
And  never  the  spring  wind  weaves 
Green  grass  for  the  hunter's  tread ; 
A  land  forsaken  and  dead, 
Where  the  ghostly  icebergs  go 
And  come  with  the  ebb  and  flow 

Of  the  waters  of  Bradore  ! 

A  wanderer,  from  a  land 
By  summer  breezes  fanned, 


THE  ROCK-TOMB   OF  BRADORE         389 

Looked  round  him,  awed,  subdued, 

By  the  dreadful  solitude, 

Hearing  alone  the  cry 

Of  sea-birds  clanging  by, 

The  crash  and  grind  of  the  floe, 

Wail  of  wind  and  wash  of  tide. 
"  O  wretched  land  !  "  he  cried, 
"  Land  of  all  lands  the  worst, 

God  forsaken  and  curst ! 

Thy  gates  of  rock  should  show 
The  words  the  Tuscan  seer 

Read  in  the  Realm  of  Woe : 
Hope  entereth  not  here  !  " 

Lo  !  at  his  feet  there  stood 
A  block  of  smooth  larch  wood, 
Waif  of  some  wandering  wave, 
Beside  a  rock-closed  cave 
By  Nature  fashioned  for  a  grave; 
Safe  from  the  ravening  bear 
And  fierce  fowl  of  the  air, 
Wherein  to  rest  was  laid 
A  twenty  summers'  maid, 
Whose  blood  had  equal  share 
Of  the  lands  of  vine  and  snow, 
Half  French,  half  Eskimo. 
In  letters  uneffaced, 
Upon  the  block  were  traced 
The  grief  and  hope  of  man, 
And  thus  the  legend  ran  : 

"  We  loved  her  ! 
Words  cannot  tell  how  well ! 

We  loved  her  ! 

God  loved  her  ! 


390    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

And  called  her  home  to  peace  and  rest. 
We  love  her!" 

The  stranger  paused  and  read. 
"  O  winter  land  !  "  he  said, 
"  Thy  right  to  be  I  own ; 
God  leaves  thee  not  alone. 
And  if  thy  fierce  winds  blow 
Over  drear  wastes  of  rock  and  snow, 
And  at  thy  iron  gates 
The  ghostly  iceberg  waits, 

Thy  homes  and  hearts  are  dear. 
Thy  sorrow  o'er  thy  sacred  dust 
Is  sanctified  by  hope  and  trust ; 

God's  love  and  man's  are  here. 
And  love  where'er  it  goes 
Makes  its  own  atmosphere ; 
Its  flowers  of  Paradise 
Take  root  in  the  eternal  ice, 

And  bloom  through  Polar  snows !  " 
1881. 

THE  BAY  OF  SEVEN  ISLANDS. 

The  volume  in  which  The  Bay  of  Seven  Islands  was  published 
was  dedicated  to  the  late  Edwin  Percy  Whipple,  to  whom  more 
than  to  any  other  person  I  was  indebted  for  public  recognition  as 
one  worthy  of  a  place  in  American  literature,  at  a  time  when  it 
required  a  great  degree  of  courage  to  urge  such  a  claim  for  a  pro- 
scribed abolitionist.  Although  younger  than  I,  he  had  gained 
the  reputation  of  a  brilliant  essayist,  and  was  regarded  as  the 
highest  American  authority  in  criticism.  His  wit  and  wisdom  en- 
livened a  small  literary  circle  of  young  men  including  Thomas 
Starr  King,  the  eloquent  preacher,  and  Daniel  N.  Haskell  of  the 
Daily  Transcript,  who  gathered  about  our  common  friend  James 
T.  Fields  at  the  Old  Corner  Bookstore.  The  poem  which  gave 


THE  BAY  OF  SEVEN  ISLANDS         391 

title  to  the  volume  I  inscribed  to  my  friend  and  neighbor  Harriet 
Prescott  Spofford,  whose  poems  have  lent  a  new  interest  to  our 
beautiful  river-valley. 

FROM  the  green  Amesbury  hill  which  bears  the 

name 

Of  that  half  mythic  ancestor  of  mine 
Who  trod  its  slopes  two  hundred  years  ago, 
Down  the  long  valley  of  the  Merrimac, 
Midway  between  me  and  the  river's  mouth, 
I  see  thy  home,  set  like  an  eagle's  nest 
Among  Deer  Island's  immemorial  pines, 
Crowning  the  crag  on  which  the  sunset  breaks 
Its  last  red  arrow.     Many  a  tale  and  song, 
Which  thou  hast  told  or  sung,  I  call  to  mind, 
Softening  with  silvery  mist  the  woods  and  hills, 
The  out-thrust  headlands  and  inreaching  bays 
Of  our  northeastern  coast-line,  trending  where 
The  Gulf,  midsummer,  feels  the  chill  blockade 
Of  icebergs  stranded  at  its  northern  gate. 

To  thee  the  echoes  of  the  Island  Sound 

Answer  not  vainly,  nor  in  vain  the  moan 

Of  the  South  Breaker  prophesying  storm. 

And  thou  hast  listened,  like  myself,  to  men 

Sea-periled  oft  where  Anticosti  lies 

Like  a  fell  spider  in  its  web  of  fog, 

Or   where   the  Grand   Bank    shallows   with   the 

wrecks 

Of  sunken  fishers,  and  to  whom  strange  isles 
And  frost-rimmed  bays  and  trading  stations  seem 
Familiar  as  Great  Neck  and  Kettle  Cove, 
Nubble  and  Boon,  the  common  names  of  home. 


392    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

So  let  me  offer  thee  this  lay  of  mine, 
Simple  and  homely,  lacking  much  thy  play 
Of  color  and  of  fancy.     If  its  theme 
And  treatment  seem  to  thee  befitting  youth 
Rather  than  age,  let  this  be  my  excuse  : 
It  has  beguiled  some  heavy  hours  and  called 
Some  pleasant  memories  up  ;  and,  better  still, 
Occasion  lent  me  for  a  kindly  word 
To  one  who  is  my  neighbor  and  my  friend. 
1883. 


The  skipper  sailed  out  of  the  harbor  mouth, 
Leaving  the  apple-bloom  of  the  South 

For  the  ice  of  the  Eastern  seas, 

In  his  fishing  schooner  Breeze. 

Handsome  and  brave  and  young  was  he, 
And  the  maids  of  Newbury  sighed  to  see 

His  lessening  white  sail  fall 

Under  the  sea's  blue  wall. 

Through  the  Northern  Gulf  and  the  misty  screen 
Of  the  isles  of  Mingan  and  Madeleine, 

St.  Paul's  and  Blanc  Sablon, 

The  little  Breeze  sailed  on, 

Backward  and  forward,  along  the  shore 
Of  lorn  and  desolate  Labrador, 

And  found  at  last  her  way 

To  the  Seven  Islands  Bay. 

The  little  hamlet,  nestling  below 
Great  hills  white  with  lingering  snow, 


THE  BAY  OF  SEVEN  ISLANDS         393 

With  its  tin-roofed  chapel  stood 
Half  hid  in  the  dwarf  spruce  wood ; 

Green-turfed,  flower-sown,  the  last  outpost 
Of  summer  upon  the  dreary  coast, 

With  its  gardens  small  and  spare, 

Sad  in  the  frosty  air. 

Hard  by  where  the  skipper's  schooner  lay, 
A  fisherman's  cottage  looked  away 

Over  isle  and  bay,  and  behind 

On  mountains  dim-defined. 

And  there  twin  sisters,  fair  and  young, 
Laughed  with  their  stranger  guest,  and  sung 

In  their  native  tongue  the  lays 

Of  the  old  Provencal  days. 

Alike  were  they,  save  the  faint  outline 
Of  a  scar  on  Suzette's  forehead  fine  ; 
And  both,  it  so  befell, 
Loved  the  heretic  stranger  well. 

Both  were  pleasant  to  look  upon, 

But  the  heart  of  the  skipper  clave  to  one ; 

Though  less  by  his  eye  than  heart 

He  knew  the  twain  apart. 

Despite  of  alien  race  and  creed, 

Well  did  his  wooing  of  Marguerite  speed ; 

And  the  mother's  wrath  was  vain 

As  the  sister's  jealous  pain. 


394    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

The  shrill-tongued  mistress  her  house  forbade, 
And  solemn  warning  was  sternly  said 

By  the  black-robed  priest,  whose  word 

As  law  the  hamlet  heard. 

But  half  by  voice  and  half  by  signs 
The  skipper  said,  "  A  warm  sun  shines 

On  the  green-banked  Merrimac  ; 

Wait,  watch,  till  I  come  back. 

"And  when  you  see,  from  my  mast  head, 
The  signal  fly  of  a  kerchief  red, 

My  boat  on  the  shore  shall  wait ; 
Come,  when  the  night  is  late." 

Ah !  weighed  with  childhood's  haunts  and  friends, 
And  all  that  the  home  sky  overbends, 

Did  ever  young  love  fail 

To  turn  the  trembling  scale  ? 

Under  the  night,  on  the  wet  sea  sands, 
Slowly  unclasped  their  plighted  hands : 

One  to  the  cottage  hearth, 

And  one  to  his  sailor's  berth. 

What  was  it  the  parting  lovers  heard  ? 

Nor  leaf,  nor  ripple,  nor  wing  of  bird, 
But  a  listener's  stealthy  tread 
On  the  rock-moss,  crisp  and  dead. 

He  weighed  his  anchor,  and  fished  once  more 
By  the  black  coast-line  of  Labrador ; 

And  by  love  and  the  north  wind  driven, 
Sailed  back  to  the  Islands  Seven. 


THE  BAY  OF  SEVEN  ISLANDS         395 

In  the  sunset's  glow  the  sisters  twain 
Saw  the  Breeze  come  sailing  in  again  ; 

Said  Suzette,  "  Mother  dear, 

The  heretic's  sail  is  here." 

"  Go,  Marguerite,  to  your  room,  and  hide  ; 
Your  door  shall  be  bolted  !  "  the  mother  cried : 
While  Suzette,  ill  at  ease, 
Watched  the  red  sign  of  the  Breeze. 

At  midnight,  down  to  the  waiting  skiff 
She  stole  in  the  shadow  of  the  cliff ; 
And  out  of  the  Bay's  mouth  ran 
The  schooner  with  maid  and  man. 

And  all  night  long,  on  a  restless  bed, 

Her  prayers  to  the  Virgin  Marguerite  said : 

And  thought  of  her  lover's  pain 

Waiting  for  her  in  vain. 

Did  he  pace  the  sands  ?     Did  he  pause  to  hear 
The  sound  of  her  light  step  drawing  near  ? 
And,  as  the  slow  hours  passed, 
Would  he  doubt  her  faith  at  last? 

But  when  she  saw  through  the  misty  pane, 
The  morning  break  on  a  sea  of  rain, 

Could  even  her  love  avail 

To  follow  his  vanished  sail  ? 

Meantime  the  Breeze,  with  favoring  wind, 
Left  the  rugged  Moisic  hills  behind, 

And  heard  from  an  unseen  shore 

The  falls  of  Manitou  roar. 


396     NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

On  the  morrow's  morn,  in  the  thick,  gray  weather 
They  sat  on  the  reeling  deck  together, 

Lover  and  counterfeit, 

Of  hapless  Marguerite. 

With  a  lover's  hand,  from  her  forehead  fair 
He  smoothed  away  her  jet-black  hair. 

What  was  it  his  fond  eyes  met  ? 

The  scar  of  the  false  Suzette ! 

Fiercely  he  shouted  :  "  Bear  away 
East  by  north  for  Seven  Isles  Bay  !  " 

The  maiden  wept  and  prayed, 

But  the  ship  her  helm  obeyed. 

Once  more  the  Bay  of  the  Isles  they  found : 
They  heard  the  bell  of  the  chapel  sound, 
And  the  chant  of  the  dying  sung 
In  the  harsh,  wild  Indian  tongue. 

A  feeling  of  mystery,  change,  and  awe 
Was  in  all  they  heard  and  all  they  saw : 

Spell-bound  the  hamlet  lay 

In  the  hush  of  its  lonely  bay. 

And  when  they  came  to  the  cottage  door, 
The  mother  rose  up  from  her  weeping  sore, 

And  with  angry  gestures  met 

The  scared  look  of  Suzette. 

"  Here  is  your  daughter,"  the  skipper  said  ; 
"  Give  me  the  one  I  love  instead." 

But  the  woman  sternly  spake  ; 

"  Go,  see  if  the  dead  will  wake  !  " 


THE  BAY  OF  SEVEN  ISLANDS          397 

He  looked.     Her  sweet  face  still  and  white 
And  strange  in  the  noonday  taper  light, 
She  lay  on  her  little  bed, 
With  the  cross  at  her  feet  and  head. 

In  a  passion  of  grief  the  strong  man  bent 
Down  to  her  face,  and,  kissing  it,  went 

Back  to  the  waiting  Breeze, 

Back  to  the  mournful  seas. 

Never  again  to  the  Merrimac 

And  Newbury's  homes  that  bark  came  back. 

Whether  her  fate  she  met 

On  the  shores  of  Carraquette, 

Miscou,  or  Tracadie,  who  can  say  ? 
But  even  yet  at  Seven  Isles  Bay 

Is  told  the  ghostly  tale 

Of  a  weird,  unspoken  sail, 

In  the  pale,  sad  light  of  the  Northern  day 
Seen  by  the  blanketed  Montagnais, 

Or  squaw,  in  her  small  kyack, 

Crossing  the  spectre's  track. 

On  the  deck  a  maiden  wrings  her  hands ; 

Her  likeness  kneels  on  the  gray  coast  sands ; 
One  in  her  wild  despair, 
And  one  in  the  trance  of  prayer. 

She  flits  before  no  earthly  blast, 

The  red  sign  fluttering  from  her  mast, 


398  NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

Over  the  solemn  seas, 

The  ghost  of  the  schooner  Breeze ! 


THE  WISHING  BRIDGE. 

AMONG  the  legends  sung  or  said 

Along  our  rocky  shore, 
The  Wishing  Bridge  of  Marblehead 

May  well  be  sung  once  more. 

An  hundred  years  ago  (so  ran 

The  old-time  story)  all 
Good  wishes  said  above  its  span 

Would,  soon  or  late,  befall. 

If  pure  and  earnest,  never  failed 

The  prayers  of  man  or  maid 
For  him  who  on  the  deep  sea  sailed, 

For  her  at  home  who  stayed. 

Once  thither  came  two  girls  from  school, 

And  wished  in  childish  glee  : 
And  one  would  be  a  queen  and  rule, 

And  one  the  world  would  see. 

Time  passed  ;  with  change  of  hopes  and  fears. 

And  in  the  self-same  place, 
Two  women,  gray  with  middle  years, 

Stood,  wondering,  face  to  face. 

With  wakened  memories,  as  they  met, 
They  queried  what  had  been : 


THE  WISHING  BRIDGE  399 

"  A  poor  man's  wife  am  I,  and  yet," 
Said  one,  "  I  am  a  queen. 

"  My  realm  a  little  homestead  is, 

Where,  lacking  crown  and  throne, 
I  rule  by  loving  services 
And  patient  toil  alone." 

The  other  said  :  "  The  great  world  lies 

Beyond  me  as  it  lay  ; 
O'er  love's  and  duty's  boundaries 

My  feet  may  never  stray. 

"  I  see  but  common  sights  of  home, 

Its  common  sounds  I  hear, 
My  widowed  mother's  sick-bed  room 
Sufficeth  for  my  sphere. 

"  I  read  to  her  some  pleasant  page 

Of  travel  far  and  wide, 

And  in  a  dreamy  pilgrimage 

We  wander  side  by  side. 

"  And  when,  at  last,  she  falls  asleep, 

My  book  becomes  to  me 
A  magic  glass  :  my  watch  I  keep, 
But  all  the  world  I  see. 

"  A  farm-wife  queen  your  place  you  fill, 

While  fancy's  privilege 
Is  mine  to  walk  the  earth  at  will, 
Thanks  to  the  Wishing  Bridge." 


400      NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

"  Nay,  leave  the  legend  for  the  truth," 

The  other  cried,  "  and  say 
God  gives  the  wishes  of  our  youth, 
But  in  His  own  best  way !  " 

1882. 


HOW  THE  WOMEN  WENT  FROM  DOVER. 

The  following  is  a  copy  of  the  warrant  issued  by  Major  Wal- 
dron,  of  Dover,  in  1662.  The  Quakers,  as  was  their  wont,  proph- 
esied against  him,  and  saw,  as  they  supposed,  the  fulfilment  of 
their  prophecy  when,  many  years  after,  he  was  killed  by  the  In- 
dians. 

To  the  constables  of  Dover,  Hampton,  Salisbury,  Newbury,  Rowley, 
Ipswich,  Wenham,  Lynn,  Boston,  Boxbury,  Dedham,  and  until 
these  vagabond  Quakers  are  carried  out  of  this  jurisdiction. 

You,  and  every  one  of  you,  are  required,  in  the  King's  Majes- 
ty's name,  to  take  these  vagabond  Quakers,  Anne  Colman,  Mary 
Tomkins,  and  Alice  Ambrose,  and  make  them  fast  to  the  cart's 
tail,  and  driving  the  cart  through  your  several  towns,  to  whip 
them  upon  their  naked  backs  not  exceeding  ten  stripes  apiece  on 
each  of  them,  in  each  town  ;  and  so  to  convey  them  from  con- 
stable to  constable  tilt  they  are  out  of  this  jurisdiction,  as  you 
will  answer  it  at  your  peril ;  and  this  shall  be  your  warrant. 

RICHARD  WALDRON. 

Dated  at  Dover,  December  22,  1662. 

This  warrant  was  executed  only  in  Dover  and  Hampton.  At 
Salisbury  the  constable  refused  to  obey  it.  He  was  sustained  by 
the  town's  people,  who  were  under  the  influence  of  Major  Robert 
Pike,  the  leading  man  in  the  lower  valley  of  the  Merrimac,  who 
stood  far  in  advance  of  his  time,  as  an  advocate  of  religious  free- 
dom, and  an  opponent  of  ecclesiastical  authority.  He  had  the 
moral  courage  to  address  an  able  and  manly  letter  to  the  court  at 
Salem,  remonstrating  against  the  witchcraft  trials. 

THE  tossing  spray  of  Cocheco's  fall 
Hardened  to  ice  on  its  rocky  wall, 
As  through  Dover  town  in  the  chill,  gray  dawn, 
Three  women  passed,  at  the  cart-tail  drawn ! 


HOW  THE  WOMEN  WENT  FROM  DOVER     401 

Bared  to  the  waist,  for  the  north  wind's  grip 
And  keener  sting  of  the  constable's  whip, 
The  blood  that  followed  each  hissing  blow 
Froze  as  it  sprinkled  the  winter  snow. 

Priest  and  ruler,  boy  and  maid 
Followed  the  dismal  cavalcade  ; 
And  from  door  and  window,  open  thrown, 
Looked  and  wondered  gaffer  and  crone. 

"  God  is  our  witness,"  the  victims  cried, 
"  We  suffer  for  Him  who  for  all  men  died ; 
The  wrong  ye  do  has  been  done  before, 
We  bear  the  stripes  that  the  Master  bore ! 

"  And  thou,  O  Richard  Waldron,  for  whom 
We  hear  the  feet  of  a  coming  doom, 
On  thy  cruel  heart  and  thy  hand  of  wrong 
Vengeance  is  sure,  though  it  tarry  long. 

"  In  the  light  of  the  Lord,  a  flame  we  see 
Climb  and  kindle  a  proud  roof-tree  ; 
And  beneath  it  an  old  man  lying  dead, 
With  stains  of  blood  on  his  hoary  head." 

"  Smite,  Goodman  Hate-Evil !  —  harder  still !  " 
The  magistrate  cried,  "  lay  on  with  a  will ! 
Drive  out  of  their  bodies  the  Father  of  Lies, 
Who  through  them  preaches  and  prophesies  !  " 

So  into  the  forest  they  held  their  way, 
By  winding  river  and  frost-rimmed  bay, 
Over  wind-swept  hills  that  felt  the  beat 
Of  the  winter  sea  at  their  icy  feet. 


402     NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

The  Indian  hunter,  searching  his  traps, 
Peered  stealthily  through  the  forest  gaps  ; 
And  the  outlying  settler  shook  his  head,  — 
"They  're  witches  going  to  jail,"  he  said. 

At  last  a  meeting-house  came  in  view  ; 

A  blast  on  his  horn  the  constable  blew  ; 

And  the  boys  of  Hampton  cried  up  and  down, 

"  The  Quakers  have  come  !  "  to  the  wondering  town. 

From  barn  and  woodpile  the  goodman  came ; 
The  goodwife  quitted  her  quilting  frame, 
With  her  child  at  her  breast ;  and,  hobbling  slow, 
The  grandam  followed  to  see  the  show. 

Once  more  the  torturing  whip  was  swung, 

Once  more  keen  lashes  the  bare  flesh  stung. 

"  Oh,  spare !  they  are  bleeding !  "  a  little   maid 

cried, 
And  covered  her  face  the  sight  to  hide. 

A  murmur  ran  round  the  crowd  :  "  Good  folks,5' 
Quoth  the  constable,  busy  counting  the  strokes, 
"  No  pity  to  wretches  like  these  is  due, 
They  have  beaten  the  gospel  black  and  blue ! " 

Then  a  pallid  woman,  in  wild-eyed  fear, 
With  her  wooden  noggin  of  milk  drew  near. 
"  Drink,  poor  hearts  !  "  a  rude  hand  smote 
Her  draught  away  from  a  parching  throat. 

"  Take  heed,"  one  whispered,  "  they  '11  take  your 

cow 
For  fines,  as  they  took  your  horse  and  plough, 


HOW  THE  WOMEN  WENT  FROM  DOVER     403 

And  the  bed  from  under  you."     "  Even  so," 
She  said ;  "  they  are  cruel  as  death,  I  know." 

Then  on  they  passed,  in  the  waning  day, 
Through  Seabrook  woods,  a  weariful  way ; 
By  great  salt  meadows  and  sand-hills  bare, 
And  glimpses  of  blue  sea  here  and  there. 

By  the  meeting-house  in  Salisbury  town, 
The  sufferers  stood,  in  the  red  sundown, 
Bare  for  the  lash  !     O  pitying  Night, 
Drop  swift  thy  curtain  and  hide  the  sight ! 

With  shame  in  his  eye  and  wrath  on  his  lip 
The  Salisbury  constable  dropped  his  whip. 
"  This  warrant  means  murder  foul  and  red  ; 
Cursed  is  he  who  serves  it,"  he  said. 

"  Show  me  the  order,  and  meanwhile  strike 
A  blow  at  your  peril !  "  said  Justice  Pike. 
Of  all  the  rulers  the  land  possessed, 
Wisest  and  boldest  was  he  and  best. 

He  scoffed  at  witchcraft ;  the  priest  he  met 
As  man  meets  man ;  his  feet  he  set 
Beyond  his  dark  age,  standing  upright, 
Soul-free,  with  his  face  to  the  morning  light. 

He  read  the  warrant :  "  These  convey 

From   our  precincts;    at   every   town   on   the 

way 

Give  each  ten  lashes"     "  God  judge  the  brute  ! 
I  tread  his  order  under  my  foot ! 


404     NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

"  Cut  loose  these  poor  ones  and  let  them  go  ; 
Come  what  will  of  it,  all  men  shall  know 
No  warrant  is  good,  though  backed  by  the  Crown, 
For  whipping  women  in  Salisbury  town  !  " 

The  hearts  of  the  villagers,  half  released 
From  creed  of  terror  and  rule  of  priest, 
By  a  primal  instinct  owned  the  right 
Of  human  pity  in  law's  despite. 

For  ruth  and  chivalry  only  slept, 
His  Saxon  manhood  the  yeoman  kept ; 
Quicker  or  slower,  the  same  blood  ran 
In  the  Cavalier  and  the  Puritan. 

The  Quakers  sank  on  their  knees  in  praise 
And  thanks.     A  last,  low  sunset  blaze 
Flashed  out  from  under  a  cloud,  and  shed 
A  golden  glory  on  each  bowed  head. 

The  tale  is  one  of  an  evil  time, 

When  souls  were  fettered  and  thought  was  crime, 

And  heresy's  whisper  above  its  breath 

Meant  shameful  scourging  and  bonds  and  death ! 

What  marvel,  that  hunted  and  sorely  tried, 
Even  woman  rebuked  and  prophesied, 
And  soft  words  rarely  answered  back 
The  grim  persuasion  of  whip  and  rack ! 

If  her  cry  from  the  whipping-post  and  jail 
Pierced  sharp  as  the  Kenite's  driven  nail, 
O  woman,  at  ease  in  these  happier  days, 
Forbear  to  judge  of  thy  sister's  ways! 


SAINT  GREGORY'S   GUEST  405 

How  much  thy  beautiful  life  may  owe 
To  her  faith  and  courage  thou  canst  not  know, 
Nor  how  from  the  paths  of  thy  calm  retreat 
She  smoothed  the  thorns  with  her  bleeding  feet. 


1883. 


SAINT  GREGORY'S  GUEST. 

A  TALE  for  Roman  guides  to  tell 

To  careless,  sight-worn  travellers  still, 

Who  pause  beside  the  narrow  cell 
Of  Gregory  on  the  Cselian  Hill. 

One  day  before  the  monk's  door  came 
A  beggar,  stretching  empty  palms, 

Fainting  and  fast-sick,  in  the  name 
Of  the  Most  Holy  asking  alms. 

And  the  monk  answered,  "  All  I  have 
In  this  poor  cell  of  mine  I  give, 

The  silver  cup  my  mother  gave  ; 

In  Christ's  name  take  thou  it,  and  live." 

Years  passed  ;  and,  called  at  last  to  bear 
The  pastoral  crook  and  keys  of  Rome, 

The  poor  monk,  in  Saint  Peter's  chair, 
Sat  the  crowned  lord  of  Christendom. 

"  Prepare  a  feast,"  Saint  Gregory  cried, 

"  And  let  twelve  beggars  sit  thereat." 
The  beggars  came,  and  one  beside, 
An  unknown  stranger,  with  them  sat. 


406    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

"  I  asked  thee  not,"  the  Pontiff  spake, 

"  O  stranger  ;  but  if  need  be  thine, 
I  bid  thee  welcome,  for  the  sake 

Of  Him  who  is  thy  Lord  and  mine." 

A  grave,  calm  face  the  stranger  raised, 
Like  His  who  on  Gennesaret  trod, 

Or  His  on  whom  the  Chaldeans  gazed, 
Whose  form  was  as  the  Son  of  God. 

"  Know'st  thou,"  he  said,  "  thy  gift  of  old  ?  " 

And  in  the  hand  he  lifted  up 
The  Pontiff  marvelled  to  behold 
Once  more  his  mother's  silver  cup. 

"  Thy  prayers  and  alms  have  risen,  and  bloom 

Sweetly  among  the  flowers  of  heaven. 
I  am  The  Wonderful,  through  whom 
Whate'er  thou  askest  shall  be  given." 

He  spake  and  vanished.  Gregory  fell 
With  his  twelve  guests  in  mute  accord 

Prone  on  their  faces,  knowing  well 
Their  eyes  of  flesh  had  seen  the  Lord. 

The  old-time  legend  is  not  vain  ; 

Nor  vain  thy  art,  Verona's  Paul, 
Telling  it  o'er  and  o'er  again 

On  gray  Vicenza's  frescoed  wall. 

Still  wheresoever  pity  shares 

Its  bread  with  sorrow,  want,  and  sin, 

And  love  the  beggar's  feast  prepares, 
The  uninvited  Guest  comes  in. 


BIRCHBROOK  MILL  407 

Unheard,  because  our  ears  are  dull, 
Unseen,  because  our  eyes  are  dim, 

He  walks  our  earth,  The  Wonderful, 
And  all  good  deeds  are  done  to  Him. 

1883. 


BIRCHBROOK  MILL. 

A  NOTELESS  stream,  the  Birchbrook  runs 

Beneath  its  leaning  trees ; 
That  low,  soft  ripple  is  its  own, 

That  dull  roar  is  the  sea's. 

Of  human  signs  it  sees  alone 
The  distant  church  spire's  tip, 

And,  ghost-like,  on  a  blank  of  gray, 
The  white  sail  of  a  ship. 

No  more  a  toiler  at  the  wheel, 

It  wanders  at  its  will ; 
Nor  dam  nor  pond  is  left  to  tell 

Where  once  was  Birchbrook  mill. 

The  timbers  of  that  mill  have  fed 

Long  since  a  farmer's  fires  ; 
His  doorsteps  are  the  stones  that  ground 

The  harvest  of  his  sires. 

Man  trespassed  here  ;  but  Nature  lost 

No  right  of  her  domain  ; 
She  waited,  and  she  brought  the  old 

Wild  beauty  back  again. 


408    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

By  day  the  sunlight  through  the  leaves 

Falls  on  its  moist,  green  sod, 
And  wakes  the  violet  bloom  of  spring 

And  autumn's  golden-rod. 

Its  birches  whisper  to  the  wind, 

The  swallow  dips  her  wings 
In  the  cool  spray,  and  on  its  banks 

The  gray  song-sparrow  sings. 

But  from  it,  when  the  dark  night  falls, 
The  school-girl  shrinks  with  dread; 

The  farmer,  home-bound  from  his  fields, 
Goes  by  with  quickened  tread. 

They  dare  not  pause  to  hear  the  grind 

Of  shadowy  stone  on  stone  ; 
The  plashing  of  a  water-wheel 

Where  wheel  there  now  is  none. 

Has  not  a  cry  of  pain  been  heard 

Above  the  clattering  mill? 
The  pawing  of  an  unseen  horse, 

Who  waits  his  mistress  still  ? 

Yet  never  to  the  listener's  eye 
Has  sight  confirmed  the  sound  ; 

A  wavering  birch  line  marks  alone 
The  vacant  pasture  ground. 

No  ghostly  arms  fling  up  to  heaven 

The  agony  of  prayer; 
No  spectral  steed  impatient  shakes 

His  white  mane  on  the  air. 


THE   TWO  ELIZABETHS  409 

The  meaning  of  that  common  dread 

No  tongue  has  fitly  told ; 
The  secret  of  the  dark  surmise 

The  brook  and  birches  hold. 

What  nameless  horror  of  the  past 

Broods  here  f  orevermore  ? 
What  ghost  his  unforgiven  sin 

Is  grinding  o'er  and  o'er  ? 

Does,  then,  immortal  memory  play 

The  actor's  tragic  part, 
Rehearsals  of  a  mortal  life 

And  unveiled  human  heart  ? 

God's  pity  spare  a  guilty  soul 

That  drama  of  its  ill, 
And  let  the  scenic  curtain  fall 

On  Birchbrook's  haunted  mill ! 

1884. 


THE  TWO  ELIZABETHS. 

Read  at  the  unveiling  of  the  bust  of    Elizabeth  Fry  at  the 
Friends'  School,  Providence,  R.  I. 

A.  D.  1209. 

AMIDST  Thuringia's  wooded  hills  she  dwelt, 
A  high-born  princess,  servant  of  the  poor, 

Sweetening  with  gracious  words  the  food  she  dealt 
To  starving  throngs    at  Wartburg's    blazoned 
door. 


410     NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

A  blinded  zealot  held  her  soul  in  chains, 

Cramped  the  sweet  nature  that  he  could  not  kill, 

Scarred  her  fair  body  with  his  penance-pains, 
And  gauged  her  conscience  by  his  narrow  will. 

God  gave  her  gifts  of  beauty  and  of  grace, 
With  fast  and  vigil  she  denied  them  all ; 

Unquestioning,  with  sad,  pathetic  face, 

She  followed  meekly  at  her  stern  guide's  call. 

So  drooped  and  died  her  home-blown  rose  of  bliss 

In  the  chill  rigor  of  a  discipline 
That  turned  her  fond  lips  from  her  children's  kiss, 

And  made  her  joy  of  motherhood  a  sin. 

To  their  sad  level  by  compassion  led, 

One  with  the  low  and  vile  herself  she  made, 

While  thankless  misery  mocked  the  hand  that  fed, 
And  laughed  to  scorn  her  piteous  masquerade. 

But  still,  with  patience  that  outwearied  hate, 
She  gave  her  all  while  yet  she  had  to  give ; 

And  then  her  empty  hands,  importunate, 

In  prayer  she  lifted  that  the  poor  might  live. 

Sore  pressed  by  grief,  and  wrongs  more  hard  to 
bear, 

And  dwarfed  and  stifled  by  a  harsh  control, 
She  kept  life  fragrant  with  good  deeds  and  prayer, 

And  fresh  and  pure  the  white  flower  of  her  soul. 

Death  found  her  busy  at  her  task  :  one  word 
Alone  she  uttered  as  she  paused  to  die, 


THE   TWO  ELIZABETHS  411 

"  Silence !  "  —  then  listened  even  as  one  who  heard 
With  song  and  wing  the  angels  drawing  nigh ! 

Now  Era  Angelico's  roses  fill  her  hands, 
And,  on  Murillo's  canvas,  Want  and  Pain 

Kneel  at  her  feet.     Her  marble  image  stands 
Worshipped  and    crowned   in    Marburg's  holy 
fane. 

Yea,  wheresoe'er  her  Church  its  cross  uprears, 
Wide  as  the  world  her  story  still  is  told  ; 

In  manhood's  reverence,  woman's  prayers  and  tears, 
She  lives  again  whose  grave  is  centuries  old. 

And  still,  despite  the  weakness  or  the  blame 
Of  blind  submission  to  the  blind,  she  hath 

A  tender  place  in  hearts  of  every  name, 

And  more  than  Rome  owns  Saint  Elizabeth ! 

A.  D.  1780. 

Slow  ages  passed :  and  lo  !  another  came, 
An  English  matron,  in  whose  simple  faith 

Nor  priestly  rule  nor  ritual  had  claim, 
A  plain,  uncanonized  Elizabeth. 

No  sackcloth  robe,  nor  ashen-sprinkled  hair, 
Nor  wasting  fast,  nor  scourge,  nor  vigil  long, 

Marred  her  calm  presence.    God  had  made  her  fair, 
And  she  could  do  His  goodly  work  no  wrong. 

Their  yoke  is  easy  and  their  burden  light 
Whose  sole  confessor  is  the  Christ  of  God ; 

Her  quiet  trust  and  faith  transcending  sight 

Smoothed  to  her  feet  the  difficult  paths  she  trod. 


412     NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

And  there  she  walked,  as  duty  bade  her  go, 
Safe  and  unsullied  as  a  cloistered  nun, 

Shamed  with  her  plainness  Fashion's  gaudy  show, 
And  overcame  the  world  she  did  not  shun. 

In  Earlham's  bowers,  in  Plashet's  liberal  hall, 
In  the  great  city's  restless  crowd  and  din, 

Her  ear  was  open  to  the  Master's  call, 

And  knew  the  summons  of  His  voice  within. 

Tender  as  mother,  beautiful  as  wife, 

Amidst  the  throngs  of  prisoned  crime  she  stood 
In  modest  raiment  faultless  as  her  life, 

The  type  of  England's  worthiest  womanhood ! 

To  melt  the  hearts  that  harshness  turned  to  stone 
The  sweet  persuasion  of  her  lips  sufficed, 

And  guilt,  which  only  hate  and  fear  had  known, 
Saw  in  her  own  the  pitying  love  of  Christ. 

So  wheresoe'er  the  guiding  Spirit  went 
She  followed,  finding  every  prison  cell 

It  opened  for  her  sacred  as  a  tent 

Pitched  by  Gennesaret  or  by  Jacob's  well. 

And  Pride  and  Fashion  felt  her  strong  appeal, 
And  priest  and  ruler  marvelled  as  they  saw 

How  hand  in  hand  went  wisdom  with  her  zeal, 
And  woman's  pity  kept  the  bounds  of  law. 

She  rests  in  God's  peace ;  but  her  memory  stirs 
The  air  of  earth  as  with  an  angel's  wings, 

And  warms  and  moves  the  hearts  of  men  like  hers, 
The  sainted  daughter  of  Hungarian  kings. 


THE  HOMESTEAD  413 

United  now,  the  Briton  and  the  Hun, 

Each,  in  her  own  time,  faithful  unto  death, 

Live  sister  souls  !  in  name  and  spirit  one, 
Thuringia's  saint  and  our  Elizabeth  ! 

1885. 


REQUITAL. 

As  Islam's  Prophet,  when  his  last  day  drew 
Nigh  to  its  close,  besought  all  men  to  say 
Whom  he  had  wronged,  to  whom  he  then  should 

pay 

A  debt  forgotten,  or  for  pardon  sue, 

And,  through  the  silence  of  his  weeping  friends, 

A  strange  voice  cried  :  "  Thou  owest  me  a  debt," 
"  Allah  be  praised !  "  he  answered.     "  Even  yet 
He  gives  me  power  to  make  to  thee  amends. 
O  friend  !  I  thank  thee  for  thy  timely  word." 
So  runs  the  tale.     Its  lesson  all  may  heed, 
For   all   have  sinned   in   thought,  or  word,  or 

deed, 

Or,  like  the  Prophet,  through  neglect  have  erred. 
All  need  forgiveness,  all  have  debts  to  pay 
Ere  the  night  cometh,  while  it  still  is  day. 


THE  HOMESTEAD. 

AGAINST  the  wooded  hills  it  stands, 
Ghost  of  a  dead  home,  staring  through 

Its  broken  lights  on  wasted  lands 
Where  old-time  harvests  grew. 


414    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

Unploughed,  unsown,  by  scythe  unshorn, 
The  poor,  forsaken  farm-fields  lie, 

Once  rich  and  rife  with  golden  corn 
And  pale  green  breadths  of  rye. 

Of  healthful  herb  and  flower  bereft, 
The  garden  plot  no  housewife  keeps  ; 

Through  weeds  and  tangle  only  left, 
The  snake,  its  tenant,  creeps. 

A  lilac  spray,  still  blossom-clad, 

Sways  slow  before  the  empty  rooms; 

Beside  the  roofless  porch  a  sad 
Pathetic  red  rose  blooms. 

His  track,  in  mould  and  dust  of  drouth, 
On  floor  and  hearth  the  squirrel  leaves, 

And  in  the  fireless  chimney's  mouth 
His  web  the  spider  weaves. 

The  leaning  barn,  about  to  fall, 

Resounds  no  more  on  husking  eves ; 

No  cattle  low  in  yard  or  stall, 
No  thresher  beats  his  sheaves. 

So  sad,  so  drear !     It  seems  almost 

Some  haunting  Presence  makes  its  sign  ; 

That  down  yon  shadowy  lane  some  ghost 
Might  drive  his  spectral  kine  ! 

O  home  so  desolate  and  lorn  ! 

Did  all  thy  memories  die  with  thee  ? 
Were  any  wed,  were  any  born, 

Beneath  this  low  roof-tree  ? 


THE  HOMESTEAD  415 

Whose  axe  the  wall  of  forest  broke, 
And  let  the  waiting  sunshine  through  ? 

What  goodwife  sent  the  earliest  smoke 
Up  the  great  chimney  flue  ? 

Did  rustic  lovers  hither  come  ? 

Did  maidens,  swaying  back  and  forth 
In  rhythmic  grace,  at  wheel  and  loom, 

Make  light  their  toil  with  mirth  ? 

Did  child  feet  patter  on  the  stair  ? 

Did  boyhood  frolic  in  the  snow  ? 
Did  gray  age,  in  her  elbow  chair, 

Knit,  rocking  to  and  fro  ? 

The  murmuring  brook,  the  sighing  breeze, 
The  pine's  slow  whisper,  cannot  tell ; 

Low  mounds  beneath  the  hemlock-trees 
Keep  the  home  secrets  well. 

Cease,  mother-land,  to  fondly  boast 
Of  sons  far  off  who  strive  and  thrive, 

Forgetful  that  each  swarming  host 
Must  leave  an  emptier  hive ! 

O  wanderers  from  ancestral  soil, 

Leave  noisome  mill  and  chaffering  store : 

Gird  up  your  loins  for  sturdier  toil, 
And  build  the  home  once  more  ! 

Come  back  to  bayberry-scented  slopes, 
And  fragrant  fern,  and  ground-nut  vine ; 

Breathe  airs  blown  over  holt  and  copse 
Sweet  with  black  birch  and  pine. 


416      NARRA Tl VE  A ND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

What  matter  if  the  gains  are  small 
That  life's  essential  wants  supply  ? 

Your  homestead's  title  gives  you  all 
That  idle  wealth  can  buy. 

All  that  the  many-dollared  crave, 

The  brick-walled  slaves  of  'Change  and  mart, 
Lawns,  trees,  fresh  air,  and  flowers,  you  have, 

More  dear  for  lack  of  art. 

Your  own  sole  masters,  freedom-willed, 
With  none  to  bid  you  go  or  stay, 

Till  the  old  fields  your  fathers  tilled, 
As  manly  men  as  they  ! 

With  skill  that  spares  your  toiling  hands, 
And  chemic  aid  that  science  brings, 

Reclaim  the  waste  and  outworn  lands, 
And  reign  thereon  as  kings  ! 

1886. 


HOW  THE  ROBIN  CAME. 

AN   ALGONQUIN   LEGEND. 

HAPPY  young  friends,  sit  by  me, 
Under  May's  blown  apple-tree, 
While  these  home-birds  in  and  out 
Through  the  blossoms  flit  about. 
Hear  a  story,  strange  and  old, 
By  the  wild  red  Indians  told, 
How  the  robin  came  to  be : 


HOW  THE  ROBIN  CAME  417 

Once  a  great  chief  left  his  son,  — 
Well-beloved,  his  only  one,  — 
When  the  boy  was  well-nigh  grown, 
In  the  trial-lodge  alone. 
Left  for  tortures  long  and  slow 
Youths  like  him  must  undergo, 
Who  their  pride  of  manhood  test, 
Lacking  water,  food,  and  rest. 

Seven  days  the  fast  he  kept, 

Seven  nights  he  never  slept. 

Then  the  young  boy,  wrung  with  pain, 

Weak  from  nature's  overstrain, 

Faltering,  moaned  a  low  complaint : 
"  Spare  me,  father,  for  I  faint !  " 

But  the  chieftain,  haughty-eyed, 

Hid  his  pity  in  his  pride. 
"  You  shall  be  a  hunter  good, 

Knowing  never  lack  of  food  ; 

You  shall  be  a  warrior  great, 

Wise  as  fox  and  strong  as  bear ; 

Many  scalps  your  belt  shall  wear, 

If  with  patient  heart  you  wait 

Bravely  till  your  task  is  done. 

Better  you  should  starving  die 

Than  that  boy  and  squaw  should  cry 

Shame  upon  your  father's  son !  " 

When  next  morn  the  sun's  first  rays 
Glistened  on  the  hemlock  sprays, 
Straight  that  lodge  the  old  chief  sought, 
And  boiled  samp  and  moose  meat  brought. 
"  Rise  and  eat,  my  son  !  "  he  said. 
Lo,  he  found  the  poor  boy  deadl 


418     NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

As  with  grief  his  grave  they  made, 

And  his  bow  beside  him  laid, 

Pipe,  and  knife,  and  wampum-braid, 

On  the  lodge-top  overhead, 

Preening  smooth  its  breast  of  red 

And  the  brown  coat  that  it  wore, 

Sat  a  bird,  unknown  before. 

And  as  if  with  human  tongue, 
"  Mourn  me  not,"  it  said,  or  sung ; 
"  I,  a  bird,  am  still  your  son, 

Happier  than  if  hunter  fleet, 

Or  a  brave,  before  your  feet 

Laying  scalps  in  battle  won. 

Friend  of  man,  my  song  shall  cheer 

Lodge  and  corn-land  ;  hovering  near, 

To  each  wigwam  I  shall  bring 

Tidings  of  the  coming  spring ; 

Every  child  my  voice  shall  know 

In  the  moon  of  melting  snow, 

When  the  maple's  red  bud  swells, 

And  the  wind-flower  lifts  its  bells. 

As  their  fond  companion 

Men  shall  henceforth  own  your  son, 

And  my  song  shall  testify 

That  of  human  kin  am  I." 

Thus  the  Indian  legend  saith 
How,  at  first,  the  robin  came 
With  a  sweeter  life  from  death, 
Bird  for  boy,  and  still  the  same. 
If  my  young  friends  doubt  that  this 
Is  the  robin's  genesis, 
Not  in  vain  is  still  the  myth 


BANISHED  FROM  MASSACHUSETTS     419 

If  a  truth  be  found  therewith  : 
Unto  gentleness  belong 
Gifts  unknown  to  pride  and  wrong ; 
Happier  far  than  hate  is  praise,  — 
He  who  sings  than  he  who  slays. 


BANISHED  FROM  MASSACHUSETTS. 
1660. 

On  a  painting  by  E.  A.  Abbey.  The  General  Court  of  Massa- 
chusetts enacted  Oct.  19,  1658,  that  "any  person  or  persons  of 
the  cursed  sect  of  Quakers"  should,  on  conviction  of  the  same,  be 
banished,  on  pain  of  death,  from  the  jurisdiction  of  the  common- 
wealth. 

OVER  the  threshold  of  his  pleasant  home 

Set  in  green  clearings  passed  the  exiled  Friend, 
In  simple  trust,  misdoubting  not  the  end. 
"  Dear  heart  of  mine !  "  he  said,  "  the  time  has 

come 

To  trust  the  Lord  for  shelter."     One  long  gaze 
The  goodwife  turned  on  each  familiar  thing,  — 
The  lowing  kine,  the  orchard  blossoming, 
The    open    door    that    showed    the   hearth-fire's 

blaze,  — 

And  calmly  answered,  "  Yes,  He  will  provide." 
Silent    and     slow   they   crossed    the   homestead's 

bound, 

Lingering  the  longest  by  their  child's  grave-mound. 
"  Move  on,  or  stay  and  hang !  "  the  sheriff  cried. 
They  left  behind  them  more  than  home  or  land, 
And  set  sad  faces  to  an  alien  strand. 


420    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

Safer  with  winds  and  waves  than  human  wrath, 
With  ravening  wolves  than  those  whose  zeal  for 

God 

Was  cruelty  to  man,  the  exiles  trod 
Drear  leagues  of  forest  without  guide  or  path, 
Or  launching  frail  boats  on  the  uncharted  sea, 
Round  storm-vexed  capes,  whose  teeth  of  granite 

ground 
The   waves  to  foam,  their  perilous   way  they 

wound, 

Enduring  all  things  so  their  souls  were  free. 
Oh,  true  confessors,  shaming  them  who  did 
Anew  the  wrong  their  Pilgrim  Fathers  bore  ! 
For  you   the  Mayflower   spread  her  sail  once 

more, 

Freighted  with  souls,  to  all  that  duty  bid 
Faithful  as  they  who  sought  an  unknown  land, 
O'er  wintry  seas,  from  Holland's  Hook  of  Sand ! 

So  from  his  lost  home  to  the  darkening  main, 
Bodeful  of  storm,  stout  Macy  held  his  way, 
And,  when  the  green  shore  blended  with  the 

gray, 

His  poor  wife  moaned  :  "  Let  us  turn  back  again." 

"  Nay,  woman,  weak  of  faith,  kneel  down,"  said  he, 

"  And  say  thy  prayers :  the  Lord  himself  will 

steer ; 

And  led  by  Him,  nor  man  nor  devils  I  fear  !  "  19 
So  the  gray  Southwicks,  from  a  rainy  sea, 
Saw,  far  and  faint,  the  loom  of  land,  and  gave 
With  feeble  voices  thanks  for  friendly  ground 
Whereon  to  rest  their  weary  feet,  and  found 


THE  BROWN  DWARF  OF  RUG  EN      421 

A  peaceful  death-bed  and  a  quiet  grave 
Where,  ocean-walled,  and  wiser  than  his  age, 
The  lord  of  Shelter  scorned  the  bigot's  rage. 

Aquidneck's  isle,  Nantucket's  lonely  shores, 
And  Indian-haunted  Narragansett  saw 
The  way-worn  travellers  round  their  camp-fire 
draw, 

Or  heard  the  plashing  of  their  weary  oars. 

And  every  place  whereon  they  rested  grew 
Happier  for  pure  and  gracious  womanhood, 
And  men  whose  names  for  stainless  honor  stood, 

Founders  of  States  and  rulers  wise  and  true. 

The  Muse  of  history  yet  shall  make  amends 

To  those  who  freedom,  peace,  and  justice  taught, 
Beyond  their  dark  age  led  the  van  of  thought, 

And  left  unforfeited  the  name  of  Friends. 

O  mother  State,  how  foiled  was  thy  design  ! 

The  gain  was  theirs,  the  loss  alone  was  thine. 


THE  BROWN  DWARF  OF  RUGEN. 

The  hint  of  this  ballad  is  found  in  Arndt's  Marchen,  Berlin, 
1816.  The  ballad  appeared  first  in  St.  Nicholas,  whose  young 
readers  were  advised,  while  smiling  at  the  absurd  superstition,  to 
remember  that  bad  companionship  and  evil  habits,  desires,  and 
passions  are  more  to  be  dreaded  now  than  the  Elves  and  Trolls 
who  frightened  the  children  of  past  ages. 

THE  pleasant  isle  of  Riigen  looks  the  Baltic  water 

o'er, 
To  the  silver-sanded  beaches  of  the  Pomeranian 

shore ; 


422    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

And   in   the   town   of   Kambin  a   little   boy  and 

maid 
Plucked  the  meadow-flowers  together   and  in  the 

sea-surf  played. 

Alike  were  they  in  beauty  if  not  in  their  degree  : 
He   was   the   Amptman's   first-born,   the   miller's 
child  was  she. 

Now  of  old  the  isle  of  Kiigen  was  full  of  Dwarfs 
and  Trolls, 

The  brown-faced  little  Earth-men,  the  people  with- 
out souls ; 

And  for  every  man  and  woman  in  Riigen's  island 
found 

Walking  in  air  and  sunshine,  a  Troll  was  under- 
ground. 

It  chanced  the  little  maiden,  one  morning,  strolled 

away 
Among   the  haunted  Nine  Hills,  where  the  elves 

and  goblins  play. 

That  day,  in  barley-fields  below,  the  harvesters  had 

known 
Of  evil  voices  in  the  air,  and  heard  the  small  horns 

blown. 

She  came  not  back  ;  the  search  for  her  in  field  and 

wood  was  vain : 
They  cried  her  east,  they  cried  her  west,  but  she 

came  not  again. 


THE  BROWN  DWARF   OF  RUGEN      423 

"  She 's  down  among  the  Brown  Dwarfs,"  said  the 

dream-wives  wise  and  old, 
And  prayers  were   made,   and   masses   said,   and 

Rambin's  church  bell  tolled. 

Five  years  her  father  mourned  her ;  and  then  John 

Deitrich  said : 
"I  will  find  my  little  playmate,  be  she  alive  or 

dead." 

He  watched  among  the  Nine  Hills,  he  heard  the 

Brown  Dwarfs  sing, 
And  saw  them  dance  by  moonlight  merrily  in  a 

ring. 

And  when  their  gay-robed  leader  tossed  up  his  cap 

of  red, 
Young  Deitrich  caught  it  as  it  fell,  and  thrust  it 

on  his  head. 

The  Troll  came  crouching  at  his  feet  and  wept  for 

lack  of  it. 
"  Oh,  give  me  back  my  magic  cap,  for  your  great 

head  unfit ! " 

"  Nay,"  Deitrich  said  ;  "  the  Dwarf  who  throws  his 

charmed  cap  away, 
Must  serve  its  finder  at  his  will,  and  for  his  folly 

pay. 

"  You  stole  my  pretty  Lisbeth,  and  hid  her  in  the 

earth  ; 
And  you  shall  ope  the  door  of  glass  and  let  me 

lead  her  forth." 


424    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

"  She  will  not  come ;  she 's  one  of  us ;  she 's 
mine !  "  the  Brown  Dwarf  said  ; 

"  The  day  is  set,  the  cake  is  baked,  to-morrow  we 
shaU  wed." 

"  The  fell  fiend  fetch  thee  !  "  Deitrich  cried,  "  and 

keep  thy  foul  tongue  still. 
Quick !  open,  to  thy  evil  world,  the  glass  door  of 

the  hill ! " 

The  Dwarf  obeyed ;  and  youth  and  Troll  down  the 

long  stair-way  passed, 
And  saw  in  dim  and  sunless  light  a  country  strange 

and  vast. 

Weird,  rich,  and  wonderful,  he  saw  the  elfin  un- 

der-land,  — 
Its  palaces  of  precious  stones,  its  streets  of  golden 

sand. 

He  came  unto  a  banquet-hall  with  tables   richly 

spread, 
Where  a  young  maiden  served  to  him  the  red  wine 

and  the  bread. 

How  fair  she  seemed  among  the  Trolls  so  ugly  and 

so  wild ! 
Yet  pale  and  very  sorrowful,  like  one  who  never 

smiled ! 

Her  low,  sweet  voice,  her  gold-brown  hair,  her  ten- 
der blue  eyes  seemed 

Like  something  he  had  seen  elsewhere  or  some< 
thing  he  had  dreamed. 


THE  BROWN  DWARF  OF  RUGEN      425 

He  looked ;  he  clasped  her  in  his  arms ;  he  knew 

the  long-lost  one; 
"  O   Lisbeth !      See   thy  playmate  —  I   am    the 

Amptman's  son !  " 

She  leaned  her  fair  head  on  his  breast,  and  through 

her  sobs  she  spoke : 
"  Oh,  take  me  from  this  evil  place,  and  from  the 

elfin  folk ! 

"  And  let  me  tread  the  grass-green  fields  and  smell 

the  flowers  again, 
And  feel  the  soft  wind  on  my  cheek  and  hear  the 

dropping  rain ! 

"  And  oh,  to  hear  the  singing  bird,  the  rustling  of 

the  tree, 
The  lowing  cows,  the  bleat  of  sheep,  the  voices  of 

the  sea ; 

"  And  oh,  upon  my  father's  knee  to  sit  beside  the 

door, 
And  hear  the   bell   of   vespers  ring  in   Rambin 

church  once  more !  " 

He  kissed  her  cheek,  he  kissed  her  lips  ;  the  Brown 

Dwarf  groaned  to  see, 
And  tore  his  tangled  hair  and  ground   his  long 

teeth  angrily. 

But  Deitrich  said :  "  For  five  long  years  this  ten- 
der Christian  maid 

Has  served  you  in  your  evil  world  and  well  must 
she  be  paid ! 


426    NARRATIVE  AND  LEGENDARY  POEMS 

"  Haste !  —  hither   bring  me   precious   gems,   the 

richest  in  your  store  ; 
Then  when  we  pass  the  gate  of  glass,  you  '11  take 

your  cap  once  more." 

No  choice  was  left  the  baffled  Troll,  and,  murmur- 
ing, he  obeyed, 

And  filled  the  pockets  of  the  youth  and  apron  of 
the  maid. 

They  left  the  dreadful  under-land  and  passed  the 

gate  of  glass ; 
They  felt  the  sunshine's  warm  caress,  they  trod  the 

soft,  green  grass. 

And  when,  beneath,  they  saw  the  Dwarf  stretch  up 

to  them  his  brown 
And  crooked  claw-like  fingers,  they  tossed  his  red 

cap  down. 

Oh,  never  shone  so  bright  a  sun,  was  never  sky  so 
blue, 

As  hand  in  hand  they  homeward  walked  the  pleas- 
ant meadows  through ! 

And  never  sang  the  birds  so  sweet  in  Rambin's 
woods  before, 

And  never  washed  the  waves  so  soft  along  the  Bal- 
tic shore  ; 

And  when  beneath  his  door-yard  trees  the  father 

met  his  child, 
The  bells  rung  out  their  merriest  peal,  the  folks 

with  joy  ran  wild. 


THE  BROWN  DWARF  OF  RUGEN      427 

And  soon  from  Rambin's  holy  church  the  twain 

came  forth  as  one, 
The  Amptman  kissed  a  daughter,  the  miller  blest 

a  son. 

John  Deitrich's  fame  went  far  and  wide,  and  nurse 

and  maid  crooned  o'er 
Their  cradle   song :    "  Sleep  on,   sleep   well,   the 

Trolls  shall  come  no  more !  " 

For  in  the  haunted  Nine  Hills  he  set  a  cross  of 

stone ; 
And  Elf  and  Brown  Dwarf  sought  in  vain  a  door 

where  door  was  none. 

The  tower  he  built  in  Rambin,  fair  Riigen's  pride 

and  boast, 
Looked  o'er  the  Baltic  water  to  the  Pomeranian 

coast ; 

And,  for  his  worth  ennobled,  and  rich  beyond  com- 
pare, 

Count  Deitrich  and  his  lovely  bride  dwelt  long  and 
happy  there. 

1888. 


NOTES 


Note  1,  page  24.  The  Pythoness  of  ancient  Lynn  was  the 
redoubtable  Moll  Pitcher,  who  lived  under  the  shadow  of 
High  Rock  in  that  town,  and  was  sought  far  and  wide  for 
her  supposed  powers  of  divination.  She  died  about  1810. 
Mr.  Upham,  in  his  Salem  Witchcraft,  has  given  an  account 
of  her. 

Note  2,  page  88.  Bashaba  was  the  name  which  the  In- 
dians of  New  England  gave  to  two  or  three  of  their  principal 
chiefs,  to  whom  all  their  inferior  sagamores  acknowledged 
allegiance.  Passaconaway  seems  to  have  been  one  of  these 
chiefs.  His  residence  was  at  Pennacook.  (Mass.  Hist.  Coll., 
vol.  iii.  pp.  21,  22.)  "He  was  regarded,"  says  Hubbard, 
"  as  a  great  sorcerer,  and  his  fame  was  widely  spread.  It 
was  said  of  him  that  he  could  cause  a  green  leaf  to  grow  in 
winter,  trees  to  dance,  water  to  burn,  etc.  He  was,  un- 
doubtedly, one  of  those  shrewd  and  powerful  men  whose 
achievements  are  always  regarded  by  a  barbarous  people  as 
the  result  of  supernatural  aid.  The  Indians  gave  to  such 
the  names  of  Powahs  or  Panisees." 

"  The  Panisees  are  men  of  great  courage  and  wisdom,  and 
to  these  the  Devill  appeareth  more  familiarly  than  to  oth- 
ers." —  Winslow's  Relation. 

Note  3,  page  93.  "  The  Indians,"  says  Roger  Williams, 
"  have  a  god  whom  they  call  Wetuomanit,  who  presides  over 
the  household." 

Note  4,  page  97.  There  are  rocks  in  the  river  at  the 
Falls  of  Amoskeag,  in  the  cavities  of  which,  tradition  says, 
the  Indians  formerly  stored  and  concealed  their  corn. 

Note  5,  page  101.  The  Spring  God.  —  See  Roger  Wil* 
Harris's  Key  to  the  Indian  Language. 


430  NOTES 

Note  6,  page  106.  "Mat  wonek  kunna-tnonee."  We 
shall  see  thee  or  her  no  more.  —  See  Roger  Williams' s  Key. 

Note  7,  page  106.  "  The  Great  South  West  God."  —  See 
Roger  Williams's  Observations,  etc. 

Note  8,  page  109.  The  barbarities  of  Count  de  Tilly  after 
the  siege  of  Magdeburg  made  such  an  impression  upon  our 
forefathers  that  the  phrase  "  like  old  Tilly  "  is  still  heard 
sometimes  in  New  England  of  any  piece  of  special  ferocity. 

Note  9,  page  134.  Dr.  Hooker,  who  accompanied  Sir 
James  Ross  in  his  expedition  of  1841,  thus  describes  the  ap- 
pearance of  that  unknown  land  of  frost  and  fire  which  was 
seen  in  latitude  77°  south,  —  a  stupendous  chain  of  moun- 
tains, the  whole  mass  of  which,  from  its  highest  point  to  the 
ocean,  was  covered  with  everlasting  snow  and  ice  :  — 

"  The  water  and  the  sky  were  both  as  blue,  or  rather  more 
intensely  blue,  than  I  have  ever  seen  them  in  the  tropics,  and 
all  the  coast  was  one  mass  of  dazzlingly  beautiful  peaks  of 
snow,  which,  when  the  sun  approached  the  horizon,  reflected 
the  most  brilliant  tints  of  golden  yellow  and  scarlet  ;  and 
then,  to  see  the  dark  cloud  of  smoke,  tinged  with  flame, 
rising  from  the  volcano  in  a  perfect  unbroken  column,  one 
side  jet-black,  the  other  giving  back  the  colors  of  the  sun, 
sometimes  turning  off  at  a  right  angle  by  some  current  of 
wind,  and  stretching  many  miles  to  leeward  !  This  was  a 
sight  so  surpassing  everything  that  can  be  imagined,  and  so 
heightened  by  the  consciousness  that  we  had  penetrated,  un- 
der the  guidance  of  our  commander,  into  regions  far  beyond 
what  was  ever  deemed  practicable,  that  it  caused  a  feeling  of 
awe  to  steal  over  us  at  the  consideration  of  our  own  compar- 
ative insignificance  and  helplessness,  and  at  the  same  time 
an  indescribable  feeling  of  the  greatness  of  the  Creator  in 
the  works  of  his  hand." 

Note  10,  page  210.  It  was  the  custom  in  Sewall's  time 
for  churches  and  individuals  to  hold  fasts  whenever  any  public 
or  private  need  suggested  the  fitness  ;  and  as  state  and 
church  were  very  closely  connected,  the  General  Court  some- 
times ordered  a  fast.  Out  of  this  custom  sprang  the  annual 
fast  in  spring,  now  observed,  but  it  is  of  comparatively  re- 
cent date.  Such  a  fast  was  ordered  on  the  14th  of  January, 


NOTES  431 

1697,  when  Sewall  made  his  special  confession  of  guilt  in 
condemning  innocent  persons  under  the  supposition  that  they 
were  witches.  He  is  said  to  have  observed  the  day  privately 
on  each  annual  return  thereafter. 

Note  11,  page  244.  Dr.  John  Dee  was  a  man  of  erudi- 
tion, who  had  an  extensive  museum,  library,  and  apparatus  ; 
he  claimed  to  be  an  astrologer,  and  had  acquired  the  repu- 
tation of  having  dealings  with  evil  spirits,  and  a  mob  was 
raised  which  destroyed  the  greater  part  of  his  possessions, 
He  professed  to  raise  the  dead  and  had  a  magic  crystal. 
He  died  a  pauper  in  1608. 

Note  12,  page  325.  Eleonora  Johanna  Von  Merlau,  or,  as 
Sewall  the  Quaker  Historian  gives  it,  Von  Merlane,  a  noble 
young  lady  of  Frankfort,  seems  to  have  held  among  the 
Mystics  of  that  city  very  much  such  a  position  as  Anna 
Maria  Schurmaus  did  among  the  Labadists  of  Holland. 
William  Penn  appears  to  have  shared  the  admiration  of  her 
own  immediate  circle  for  this  accomplished  and  gifted  lady. 

Note  13,  page  330.  Magister  Johann  Kelpius,  a  gradu- 
ate of  the  University  of  Helmstadt,  came  to  Pennsylvania 
in  1694,  with  a  company  of  German  Mystics.  They  made 
their  home  in  the  woods  on  the  Wissahickon,  a  little  west  of 
the  Quaker  settlement  of  Germantown.  Kelpius  was  a  be- 
liever in  the  near  approach  of  the  Millennium,  and  was  a 
devout  student  of  the  Book  of  Revelation,  and  the  Morgen- 
Rothe  of  Jacob  Behmen.  He  called  his  settlement  "The 
Woman  in  the  Wilderness  "  (Das  Weib  inder  Wueste).  He 
was  only  twenty-four  years  of  age  when  he  came  to  America, 
but  his  gravity,  learning,  and  devotion  placed  him  at  the 
head  of  the  settlement.  He  disliked  the  Quakers,  because 
he  thought  they  were  too  exclusive  in  the  matter  of  min- 
isters. He  was,  like  most  of  the  Mystics,  opposed  to  the 
severe  doctrinal  views  of  Calvin  and  even  Luther,  declaring 
"  that  he  could  as  little  agree  with  the  Damnamus  of  the 
Augsburg  Confession  as  with  the  Anathema  of  the  Council  of 
Trent." 

He  died  in  1704,  sitting  in  his  little  garden  surrounded  by 
his  grieving  disciples.  Previous  to  his  death  it  is  said  that 
he  cast  his  famous  "  Stone  of  Wisdom  "  into  the  river,  where 


432  NOTES 

that  mystic  souvenir  of  the  times  of  Van  Helmont,  Paracel- 
sus, and  Agrippa  has  lain  ever  since,  undisturbed. 

Note  14,  page  331.  Peter  Sluyter,  or  Schluter,  a  native 
of  Wesel,  united  himself  with  the  sect  of  Labadists,  who  be- 
lieved in  the  Divine  commission  of  John  De  Labadie,  a  Ro- 
man Catholic  priest  converted  to  Protestantism,  enthusiastic, 
eloquent,  and  evidently  sincere  in  his  special  calling  and 
election  to  separate  the  true  and  living  members  of  the 
Church  of  Christ  from  the  formalism  and  hypocrisy  of  the 
ruling  sects.  George  Keith  and  Robert  Barclay  visited  him 
at  Amsterdam,  and  afterward  at  the  communities  of  Her- 
ford  and  Wieward  ;  and,  according  to  Gerard  Croes,  found 
him  so  near  to  them  on  some  points,  that  they  offered  to 
take  him  into  the  Society  of  Friends.  This  offer,  if  it  was 
really  made,  which  is  certainly  doubtful,  was,  happily  for 
the  Friends  at  least,  declined.  Invited  to  Herford  in  West- 
phalia by  Elizabeth,  daughter  of  the  Elector  Palatine,  De 
Labadie  and  his  followers  preached  incessantly,  and  suc- 
ceeded in  arousing  a  wild  enthusiasm  among  the  people,  who 
neglected  their  business  and  gave  way  to  excitements  and 
strange  practices.  Men  and  women,  it  was  said,  at  the  Com- 
munion drank  and  danced  together,  and  private  marriages, 
or  spiritual  unions,  were  formed.  Labadie  died  in  1674  at 
Altona,  in  Denmark,  maintaining  his  testimonies  to  the  last. 
"  Nothing  remains  for  me,"  he  said,  "  except  to  go  to  my 
God.  Death  is  merely  ascending  from  a  lower  and  narrower 
chamber  to  one  higher  and  holier." 

In  1679,  Peter  Sluyter  and  Jasper  Dankers  were  sent 
to  America  by  the  community  at  the  Castle  of  Wieward. 
Their  journal,  translated  from  the  Dutch  and  edited  by 
Henry  C.  Murphy,  has  been  recently  published  by  the  Long 
Island  Historical  Society.  They  made  some  converts,  and 
among  them  was  the  eldest  son  of  Hermanns,  the  proprietor 
of  a  rich  tract  of  land  at  the  head  of  Chesapeake  Bay,  known 
as  Bohemia  Manor.  Sluyter  obtained  a  grant  of  this  tract, 
and  established  upon  it  a  community  numbering  at  one  time 
a  hundred  souls.  Very  contradictory  statements  are  on  rec- 
ord regarding  his  headship  of  this  spiritual  family,  the  dis- 
cipline of  which  seems  to  have  been  of  more  than  monastic 


NOTES  433 

severity.  Certain  it  is  that  he  bought  and  sold  slaves,  and 
manifested  more  interest  in  the  world's  goods  than  became 
a  believer  in  the  near  Millennium.  He  evinces  in  his  journal 
an  overweening  spiritual  pride,  and  speaks  contemptuously 
of  other  professors,  especially  the  Quakers  whom  he  met  in 
his  travels.  The  latter,  on  the  contrary,  seem  to  have 
looked  favorably  upon  the  Labadists,  and  uniformly  speak 
of  them  courteously  and  kindly.  His  journal  shows  him  to 
have  been  destitute  of  common  gratitude  and  Christian 
charity.  He  threw  himself  upon  the  generous  hospitality  of 
the  Friends  wherever  he  went,  and  repaid  their  kindness  by 
the  coarsest  abuse  and  misrepresentation. 

Note  15,  page  332.  Among  the  pioneer  Friends  were 
many  men  of  learning  and  broad  and  liberal  views.  Penn 
was  conversant  with  every  department  of  literature  and 
philosophy.  Thomas  Lloyd  was  a  ripe  and  rare  scholar. 
The  great  Loganian  Library  of  Philadelphia  bears  witness 
to  the  varied  learning  and  classical  taste  of  its  donor,  James 
Logan.  Thomas  Story,  member  of  the  Council  of  State, 
Master  of  the  Rolls,  and  Commissioner  of  Claims  under 
William  Penn,  and  an  able  minister  of  his  Society,  took  a 
deep  interest  in  scientific  questions,  and  in  a  letter  to  his 
friend  Logan,  written  while  on  a  religious  visit  to  Great 
Britain,  seems  to  have  anticipated  the  conclusion  of  modern 
geologists.  " I  spent,"  he  says,  "some  months,  especially  at 
Scarborough,  during  the  season  attending  meetings,  at 
whose  high  cliffs  and  the  variety  of  strata  therein  and  their 
several  positions  I  further  learned  and  was  confirmed  in 
some  things,  —  that  the  earth  is  of  much  older  date  as  to 
the  beginning  of  it  than  the  time  assigned  in  the  Holy  Scrip- 
tures as  commonly  understood,  which  is  suited  to  the  com- 
mon capacities  of  mankind,  as  to  six  days  of  progressive 
work,  by  which  I  understand  certain  long  and  competent 
periods  of  time,  and  not  natural  days."  It  was  sometimes 
made  a  matter  of  reproach  by  the  Anabaptists  and  other 
sects,  that  the  Quakers  read  profane  writings  and  philoso- 
phies, and  that  they  quoted  heathen  moralists  in  support  of 
their  views.  Sluyter  and  Bankers,  in  their  journal  of  Amer- 
ican travels,  visiting  a  Quaker  preacher's  house  at  Burling- 


434  NOTES 

ton,  on  the  Delaware,  found  "  a  volume  of  Virgil  lying  on 
the  window,  as  if  it  were  a  common  hand-book  ;  also  Hel- 
mont's  book  on  Medicine  (Ortus  Medicince,  id  est  Initia  Phy- 
sica  inaudita  progressus  medicince  novus  in  morborum  ultionam 
ad  vitam  longarn),  whom,  in  an  introduction  they  have  made 
to  it,  they  make  to  pass  for  one  of  their  own  sect,  although 
in  his  lifetime  he  did  not  know  anything  about  Quakers." 
It  would  appear  from  this  that  the  half-mystical,  half-scien- 
tific writings  of  the  alchemist  and  philosopher  of  Vilverde 
had  not  escaped  the  notice  of  Friends,  and  that  they  had  in- 
cluded him  in  their  broad  eclecticism. 

Note  16,  page  333.  "  The  Quaker's  Meeting,"  a  painting 
by  E.  Hemskerck  (supposed  to  be  Egbert  Hemskerck  the 
younger,  son  of  Egbert  Hemskerck  the  old),  in  which  Wil- 
liam Penn  and  others  —  among  them  Charles  II.,  or  the 
Duke  of  York  —  are  represented  along  with  the  rudest  and 
most  stolid  class  of  the  British  rural  population  at  that  pe- 
riod. Hemskerck  came  to  London  from  Holland  with  King 
William  in  1689.  He  delighted  in  wild,  grotesque  subjects, 
such  as  the  nocturnal  intercourse  of  witches  and  the  tempta- 
tion of  St.  Anthony.  Whatever  was  strange  and  uncommon 
attracted  his  free  pencil.  Judging  from  the  portrait  of 
Penn,  he  must  have  drawn  his  faces,  figures,  and  costumes 
from  life,  although  there  may  be  something  of  caricature  in 
the  convulsed  attitudes  of  two  or  three  of  the  figures. 

Note  17,  page  337.  In  one  of  his  letters  addressed  to  Ger- 
man friends,  Pastorius  says  :  "  These  wild  men,  who  never 
in  their  life  heard  Christ's  teachings  about  temperance  and 
contentment,  herein  far  surpass  the  Christians.  They  live 
far  more  contented  and  unconcerned  for  the  morrow.  They 
do  not  overreach  in  trade.  They  know  nothing  of  our  ever- 
lasting pomp  and  stylishness.  They  neither  curse  nor  swear, 
are  temperate  in  food  and  drink,  and  if  any  of  them  get 
drunk,  the  mouth-Christians  are  at  fault,  who,  for  the  sake 
of  accursed  lucre,  sell  them  strong  drink." 

Again  he  wrote  in  1698  to  his  father  that  he  finds  the 
Indians  reasonable  people,  willing  to  accept  good  teaching 
and  manners,  evincing  an  inward  piety  toward  God,  and 
more  eager,  in  fact,  to  understand  things  divine  than  many 


NOTES  435 

among  you  who  in  the  pulpit  teach  Christ  in  word,  but  by 
ungodly  life  deny  him. 

"It  is  evident,"  says  Professor  Seidensticker,  "  Pastorius 
holds  up  the  Indian  as  Nature's  unspoiled  child  to  the  eyes 
of  the  '  European  Babel,'  somewhat  after  the  same  manner 
in  which  Tacitus  used  the  barbarian  Germani  to  shame  his 
degenerate  countrymen." 

As  believers  in  the  universality  of  the  Saving  Light,  the 
outlook  of  early  Friends  upon  the  heathen  was  a  very  cheer- 
ful and  hopeful  one.  God  was  as  near  to  them  as  to  Jew 
or  Anglo-Saxon  ;  as  accessible  at  Timbuctoo  as  at  Eome  or 
Geneva.  Not  the  letter  of  Scripture,  but  the  spirit  which 
dictated  it,  was  of  saving  efficacy.  Robert  Barclay  is  no- 
where more  powerful  than  in  his  argument  for  the  salvation 
of  the  heathen,  who  live  according  to  their  light,  without 
knowing  even  the  name  of  Christ.  William  Penn  thought 
Socrates  as  good  a  Christian  as  Richard  Baxter.  Early 
Fathers  of  the  Church,  as  Origen  and  Justin  Martyr,  held 
broader  views  on  this  point  than  modern  Evangelicals. 
Even  Augustine,  from  whom  Calvin  borrowed  his  theology, 
admits  that  he  has  no  controversy  with  the  admirable  phi- 
losophers Plato  and  Plotinus.  "  Nor  do  I  think,"  he  says  in 
De  Civ.  Dei,  lib.  xviii.,  cap.  47,  "  that  the  Jews  dare  affirm 
that  none  belonged  unto  God  but  the  Israelites." 

Note  18,  page  346.  A  common  saying  of  Valdemar ; 
hence  his  sobriquet  Alterday. 

Note  19,  page  420.  "  He  [Macy]  shook  the  dust  from  off 
his  feet,  and  departed  with  all  his  worldly  goods  and  his 
family.  He  encountered  a  severe  storm,  and  his  wife,  in- 
fluenced by  some  omens  of  disaster,  besought  him  to  put 
back.  He  told  her  not  to  fear,  for  his  faith  was  perfect. 
But  she  entreated  him  again.  Then  the  spirit  that  impelled 
him  broke  forth  :  '  Woman,  go  below  and  seek  thy  God.  I 
fear  not  the  witches  on  earth,  or  the  devils  in  hell  !  '"  — 
Life  of  Robert  Pike,  page  55. 


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